It's Love, Stupid
by Super Robot MarlinMarlen
Summary: He is such a gentle and warm guy– which I really appreciate in this tundra of ice cold ingrates– but he also happens to be about as readable as a cardboard baby book. And he wears an orange puffer vest. I respect him for his constant sunniness though, but he's the last person I'd have a good time with. Not that I need friends, or a good time…
1. Chapter 1

Autumn's falling leaves. Some might call them a 'crimson flurry' or 'a shower of bronze feathers', but I just call them 'the by-product of trees dropping dead for the winter'. Whatever the hell they're referred to as, smatterings of the dead stuff kept flying in my face, sticking in my long and messy blonde hair and landing on my lucky cowboy hat. It was Fall 11, Year 2. Guess what today was?! Dunhill's seasonal master plan to make me go nuts and confess all my crimes: the Garden Show Aw-Not-This-BS-Again Tour.

"I _myself_ could have done better," Allen states, his arms akimbo and his nose pointed high above my humble marble garden. He is quite the paradox this one is. He possesses the handsomest looks in all the land while simultaneously maintaining the crappiest personality in the very same territory. It's too bad. He would've been perfect if somebody would've swapped his brain out for Yuri's.

Yeah, I know I'm being unfair to Allen. In truth, he's not all that bad. He even says some funny shit from time to time. It's just that I hate– I mean– dislike him whenever he compares me to dogs (my arch-nemesis from birth– those bloodthirsty animals have chased me up windmills) and when he rags on my hair– just like these cruddy leaves– or when he blatantly insults me on festival days like these (and everybody around me gives the 'ooh, burn!' look. Effing groupies).

Allen doesn't respect me– at all. And no, he CAN'T have some twisted crush on me which he is struggling to express through power play. That would mean he has half the maturity of Toni, which would make me lose all remaining faith in humanity…

Er. Not that I have anything against Toni or anything. Toni's awesome. He was my best pal back in Spring-Summer of last year– back when I was bored senseless and we'd bug-catch and skinny-dip our days away on the riverside. (_I_ at least wore my underwear, alright?) That kid is still rad, but he isn't as antisocial as me now that he has some other kids to hang out with. Ah. I can't help but feel a little lonely because of it…

Moving on. Back to why that "crush" nonsense about Allen is outright dismissible. Allen is experienced with treating women well. I know this because I have some love EP myself and even right now, I can tell how he's gazing at Yuri's mom, Emma, like she's a 5-star apple Jelly Roll he'd like to replenish his stamina-meter with. _If you know what I mean._ (It's an innuendo ok.) And she's eating it up. (I must stop these tasteless jokes now.)

Yanking me from my thoughts comes in Michelle and even badass Iroha, whom– upon heard Allen's complaint and being easily influenced by it (and by it, I mean his bod)– both chime in with how lame my garden platform is this season.

"This garden needs more effort," Iroha says. She is always encouraging me to do my best and to never half-ass anything. Not that I try to… Yes. So Michelle's catty remarks don't bug me– because that's just how she rolls– but Iroha's stern and earnest words sting.

I go limp in disappointment. I know I should've crammed my platform with as much clutter as possible, but that's just not how I do things. I like a good-looking garden with SYMMETRY and AESTHETICS. Damn. These people wouldn't know a good garden even if it offered the goddess in a fishbowl and rainbows up the wazoo. But then again, those things would probably be worth major garden points. And probably be impossible to build without sacrificing several vital organs.

"This is… a nice garden," Rod says politely, scratching his left cheek and smiling shyly to hide his complete boredom. He is such a gentle and warm guy– which I really appreciate in this tundra of ice cold ingrates– but he also happens to be about as readable as a cardboard baby book. And he wears an orange puffer vest. I respect him for his constant sunniness though, but he's the last person I'd have a good time with. Not that I need friends, or a good time…

"You're such a nice guy, Rod," I tell him lowly, which he beams childishly at. I left out the part about why that's why no one ever marries him, but he doesn't need to know. Just like how I don't need to know what he REALLY thinks about my fail garden.

Rod opens his mouth– presumably to engage me in small talk– but before he can even say one syllable, Allen abruptly ceases flirting with the ladies– comes up from behind Rod, GRABS the poor lad by the scruff of his aforementioned puffer vest, and yanks him back like a cat on a leash. "Come on, little buddy," Allen says sharply, dragging him away on his heels; "Let's go give you a shave. And a haircut."

Rod, sad-eyed about his early departure (and on a related matter– blatantly incapable of growing facial hair for ANY shaving), waves goodbye and I wave back. Him and Allen… I heard that they're childhood friends, though, I'm not sure how. Must've been an awkward childhood.

Everyone else leaves the festival grumbling, so I throw myself back to my farm and into my work. My chickens are fussy little princesses and require me to repeatedly place them in front of their feed boxes before they even recognize the food there (I suspect Neil sells blind chickens in order to triple his chicken feed sales), but fortunately my livestock are slightly better at finding the food RIGHT IN FRONT of them (making them easier).

Out of breath and whipping my disheveled hair back over my shoulders, I run across the brown grass outside my farmhouse and head on in. I'm one of those farmers who likes tending crops late at night, so I clean up in the bath for now and go boil some bouillabaisse in the kitchen. It has a sexy French name, but it's really just fish stew. I've been living off this grub ever since I've started fish trapping for garbage. (VALUABLE garbage.) And ever since a certain "old man" named Soseki made me start sitting up and paying attention.

Soseki moved in during Winter of last year, and right in time, too. The Starry Night Festival was coming up in several days and I wasn't interested in taking anybody. But… You've gotta enjoy youth before it ends, right? On a whim, I asked Soseki to go and we spent the night together under the stars. Of course we didn't do anything, we barely knew each other– and it's still the same– but it was singularly the most romantic and beautiful event of my whole dreadful love life.

Pretty depressing, actually. So depressing, I almost cried. Soseki was very kind about it and shared the sentiment. He said the event made him the happiest he's ever been, but somehow– these past few seasons– it feels like he's been turning me away.

Sweating profusely, I make it to his house before lunchtime and hand him the sexy-fish-stew-made-with-love. But after thanking me, he puts it away, sits down at the table to eat, tries to ignore me, and leads all our ensuing conversation back to the topic of "how old" he is.

Bah, the only old thing about him is that tacky kimono.

And that facial hair.

Heading home, crestfallen, I stop in the middle of the cheaply-made dirt road (which I'd laid down last season), and for once, I think about Rod.

How did that shave and a haircut of his go? For the first time ever, I consider that Rod might be a fellow victim of Allen's bullying, but then I picture Allen going psycho with scissors and I can't help but chuckle at the ridiculousness.

Feeling better, I plod back to my farm to start fertilizing crops. And wouldn't you know, Neil is marching all over the place–inspecting my fields and animals like he's some kinda shadow mayor or maybe the person who's actually bothering to build up this town for free or something.

I make eye-contact with him and he threatens me immediately. "You'd better make good use of all this land or you'll regret it later," he says, making it obvious that he's thought about shanking me with some clippers and stealing my ancestors' land.

"Tch. Mind your own business," I say.

We stare each other down in true cowboy fashion, but he clicks his tongue and faces away. "You must have a lot of time on your hands to be bugging me, huh?" he mutters, dragging his feet and trudging away all passive-aggressively.

"Yeah go home," I command, not caring if he actually hears me or not, and frivolously sprinkling fertilizer all over the damn place. Despite Neil having about as crap a personality as Allen's, I actually can't bring myself to hate or blame the fellow rancher. Why is that? I'm not sure. It's probably because I have the same crap personality as him– if not worse.

Simply put, I share Neil's aversion to people. Shame it had to include him too, though we'd probably get along better if one of us suddenly decided to be a bubbly relationship doormat. It's not going to be me, obviously, and forbid the thought that he's actually being all tsundere and this is how he cozies up. I'll never accept it– such an idea– the thought of him acting hostile out of romantic frustration– sends horrific shivers down my neck. It's not in any rulebook I've ever seen, but it's going down in mine: Never get mixed up with a guy who can telepathically make your cows pregnant from five miles away.

After chores came sleep, and after that came a new cycle of the same chores and feats I've been performing for nearly two years now. Pulling cans of milk across the farm, I deposit them in my fridge and dash back outside, out of breath like always. I think of running some more fish stew to Soseki again– though I know he'd just push me away like the day before (and the day before that)– and my feet even betray my mind and actually CARRY me halfway there– but I stop in the middle of the road and finally sort things out for myself.

Soseki has been humoring me everyday like this for almost a year now, hasn't he? To him, I'm just a little girl with a crush which he hopes I outgrow.

A wave of grief washes over me, and the scenery around me blurs. Gasping like a fish keeps two hot beads from streaming down my face, and so does slapping my cheeks over and over. It seems I feel like crying again. Why is that, I wonder? I wonder… and my feet carry me to Rod's doorstep. Wiping the tears out of my eyes, I hesitate to go in.

Why am I here? I guess to make sure Allen didn't shave him bald. Right? That… of all things, must be it. Of course. Nine out of ten extroverts would agree I need to socialize right now, also. Anything to keep me from sobbing stupidly. I'm not even making sense anymore.

Turning the knob, I push the door in, carefully making my way inside, (wondering if I was any good with this socialization thing) when the first thing I see is the back of Rod's puffer vest and then… A BIG FACE-EATING DOG. Flinching in automatic fear, I jump back and run my elbow into the closing door, gasping and dropping to my knees in fierce pain.

Feet stomp my way and a hand grabs me, and when I look up, I find Rod observing my bent arm in great concern. "Are you OK?" he asks, lightly feeling my burgeoning bruise.

"I'm… I'm fine," I say, breaking out in nervous sweat as I carefully watch the roly-poly blob of a dog from across the room. "I just ran into the door. It's nothing. My bad for barging in."

Looking me in the eyes, very closely, Rod gives me one of the most serious expressions I've ever seen him wear. "Are you, by any chance, afraid of dogs?" he asks abruptly.

"I… uh?" My face grows red in shame. "What? Why are you asking me something like THAT?"

"Ah… Well," Rod begins, appearing kind of embarrassed himself; "Last year, back when you came by and adopted some cats, you got really startled when one of the dogs in the pen started barking at you. Then you ran home."

I freeze in thought, sifting through my memories and trying to recall this. It's a little hazy, but I can _see_ myself getting nervous around his pet stall. Hell, I'm always nervous around his pet stall. Still, I'm kind of impressed that he remembers something insignificant like that. He must have a strong memory.

"You know, I was kind of like you when I was little," he says. "Dogs, and other animals that were larger than me, _which were a lot,_" he adds with an undertone, "scared the utter daylights out of me."

"R… really?" I ask curiously (and maybe a bit hopefully). Him? A pet shop owner? Did he acquire some life-changing skill that helped him overcome his fear? All of a sudden, Rod was a lot more interesting.

"Yeah. It was really bad. Even Allen agreed that something had to be done." Rod smiled warmly. "So one night, he locked me up in the barn with a pack of dogs."

I instantly break out into an even colder sweat than before. If that's the solution– the answer to my problem– I don't want it. Conversely, Allen is a total bunghole. I also wonder if Rod is a masochist.

"Hey. Don't worry, there's an upside to this story." Rod smiles and squints his rather pretty blue eyes (if 'pretty' should even be used to describe a young man). "Though I cried, screamed, and threw myself at the barn door all night, the dogs were very understanding and simply whined as they watched. When I eventually fainted in shock, I woke up to find them curled up all around me, keeping me nice and warm. Not all dogs are bad, you see?"

Though it's a very moving story, I'm still not convinced that dogs are the gracious creatures he's panning them out to be. I shake my head accordingly. "So, what happened afterwards?" I ask.

"Oh, that." Rod glances at my neck and scratches his cheek awkwardly (and I realize his cheeks are so babyish– I kinda want to pinch them). "It seemed Allen forgot about me, so I was stuck in there all afternoon as well. But eventually, one of the dogs got my attention and showed me a secret tunnel out of the barn. Hm…" Facing his blobby dog on the other side of the room, he clicks his tongue softly and the animal saunters over.

I instinctively flatten myself against the nearest wall and tremble, but as the dog nears Rod, it sits down quietly and dumbly sticks its tongue out at him. "Now go say hello to her," Rod instructs it, patting its muzzle. "Be gentle."

"N-no!" I plead, cringing and tightly squeezing my eyes shut. I fight to suppress an inner whimper as a warm and wet tongue lightly scratches my hand, but to my surprise, it stops and no stick-like claws or bough-like arms assault me, and after a prolonged minute, I open my eyes to find the dog gazing up at me with its head tilted curiously.

Rod laughs brightly and I can't help but feel pathetic. "He wants to know why you're acting that way," Rod says. "He's never met a person who's so scared of him!"

I briskly wipe the back of my hand off on my overalls and tug my cowboy hat down over my eyes. "W-whatever," I stutter– and a bit more curtly than I'd meant to. "I'm not scared of dogs… or anything! So don't get any weird ideas about me." And at that, I fling open his front door and run out.

Dashing back to my farm, I self-consciously slap my face in stewing humiliation. Good going, me. Way to sound like an effing tsundere! (I swear I don't like tsunderes.) I might as well have just said, "I-it's not like I act tough because I'm really a softie inside who cowers at the sight of small animals… or anything!"

And Rod'll probably remember this forever, too. And if he tells Allen… Yes, Allen's daily "Hey, dog girl" insults will get even worse. But I won't be put down easily. I'll club Allen with a farm tool's blunt side if he even _mentions_ locking me in a barn with some dogs. I'm not being unreasonable. It's self defense.

For the next several days, I solemnly wake up, rinse, repeat, and then start the next fiasco masterminded by Dunhill, which happens to be the grueling drudgery of The Fishing Festival. (I do have to hand it to that old man. He comes up with the most intensive show-stoppers.)

I've been keeping to myself since the festival, mostly because I've been busy fishing, but as I'm barreling into town on a Saturday afternoon, Rod catches my eye in the far distance, all standing outside his front door and squinting his eyes at the noonday sun in deep thought. I contemplate going about my business– to do more riverside fishing– but instead I inexplicably re-route myself to his house.

By the time I arrive in Rod's front yard, I realize that he has already vanished back inside. Clenching a fist, I go in as well– and as I step inside– carefully this time– I once again spot Rod and his blob dog. Somehow I keep composed and go in nearer.

Rod, sensing my presence from behind, excitedly turns around and greets me by my unimportant name. "Have you come to see me?" he then asks, an odd twinge of hope in his voice.

"Hn," I admit quietly, nodding my head. I guess I did come to see him.

But why? I guess to clear things up with him, since I want to convince him that I'm not REALLY scared of dogs– somehow. I have an image to uphold, after all.

Rod takes my noncommittal grunt as a yes. "Great, I'm happy to see you!" he trills, puffing out his chest and flitting up and down like an excited little budgie bird. (Which causes me to hold down a strange smile pulling at my lips.) "I'm just teaching my dog some tricks." He adds importantly: "He _really_ needs the exercise!"

Rod is an honest young man who never overstates the facts: his dog _really does _need the exercise. It's hard to believe that a pet shop owner would let his own dog become so unfit and paunchy, but I forgo this unnecessary comment in favor of trusty silence.

"You keep chickens, don't you?" Rod asks me unexpectedly. "Could I take a look at them?"

Unable to resist his wide-eyed stare– or even ask him WHY he's so interested in my chickens– I nod automatically, which allows him to drag me back to my farm. Entering the chicken coop together, Rod begins cooing over my chickens (five normal hens and four silkies) before expressing interest in the difficulties of raising them.

I already feel stingy in the midst of his talkativeness, so I ask him if he wants to give chicken-farming a try. He agrees to it with thanks. "You got a pitchfork?" I mutter, pulling out mine. He nods and pulls out his own, so I walk over to some freshly soiled barn dirt and point my pitchfork at it. "Chicken shi–" I start out, but then quickly censor myself, since I'm apparently worried about preserving Rod's innocence now; "–Eh… doo droppings– are a bit stickier than a horse or cow's. Of course you know how runny bird droppings are, right?"

Rod goes completely silent, but I take this as a sign of attentiveness.

"Yeah, it's like that," I continue, "Even if your chicken serves it up fresh that night, scoop it before it hardens that next morning, or else you'll have to scrape it and your chickens will be pis–…. uh, peeved at you for leaving it there all night. Because this stuff is _fowl_."

Rod nods his head seriously at first, but after a bit of critical thinking, he chortles. I watch him sternly. "Uh, I just got that," he explains shyly, referring to the idiotic pun I made a full minute ago. Coughing anxiously and then holding his pitchfork like a pole-arm, he jabs the air aimlessly. "Any… special techniques for scraping old bird waste?"

"Go side to side," I explain, moving my pitchfork like a boat oar.

Rod starts moving his pitchfork like a frying pan. "Like this?" he asks.

"No, side to side. The prongs are longer than they're wide. Scrape from their sides for maximum contact."

"Uh…"

Rod moves his pitchfork like a kendo stick and I lose it. Lunging forward– I stab through his pitchfork prongs with mine and twist upwards to lock them together. I then move our pitchforks as one. "This way," I explain, showing him how it's done; he struggles to hang onto his as I'm apparently overpowering him, so I slow down and eventually unlock them.

"I… see," Rod answers, a playful flash alighting in his eyes. "Then… Like this!" He attempts to engage my pitchfork, just as I had done to his– but I parry it away with a tumultuous clash that rends sparks. He makes more attempts, but I deftly blow away each strike.

Captivated by the rush of movement, I gleefully give into chuckling– just like I was a kid again– and I gasp in rapid animation. "Your weapon is wasted in your unskilled hands!" I declare.

"Oh yeah?!" Rod strikes faster, but I mirror his pace and he tires out faster than he can move. Dropping his pitchfork aside, he falls back on his butt and our pitchfork battle ends with our high laughter and incredible panting. "You know," he says between labored breaths, "Until today, I've never actually seen you… smile or giggle. Or anything."

Finally aware of my foolishly gaping grin– after this whole time– I snap my mouth shut and tug my hat brim down over my eyes– a strong sense of guilt compounding inside of me– a guilt fueled by an unknown source of anger and despair. This crazy feeling…

Is it because I hate what he just said about me? It's like he jabbed a pointer at the fake heart worn on my chest– popping it and revealing the true one's color underneath.

Rod, picking up on my mood, despondently lowers his eyes to the floor. I can sense that he's mentally kicking himself for ruining our fun, but before I can suggest a new activity to smooth it over, he runs outside and returns holding a chicken.

And he's holding it completely wrong.

"W… why are you holding a chicken over your head?" I ask quietly. "What?"

"If I do this," he says, "don't you think I could fly?" Smiling, he hops up and down several times (holding onto the chicken's legs) and she starts screaming.

"No. She's a chicken, not what you're thinking of. And you're making her angry, which is BAD in either case." I take out a chicken treat because he's going to need it.

"Oh… Well. Here we go," he says, putting the chicken down; "Sorry about that."

I quickly hand Rod the chicken treat for use as a peace offering, but when he presents it to the chicken, she completely wigs out and chases him around the feed boxes, nipping at his heels and shrilling unforgivingly.

I truly want to help Rod, but by now– I am in hysterics.

"H-help!" he screams, finally leaping up onto the record-keeping counter where my chicken can't reach him. With shining eyes, she watches him from below, ready to attack the moment he comes down. "N-no," he cries, trembling in fear and clenching his eyes shut in a scene that reminds me of a few days ago. "Could you please… do something?" he begs graciously.

I slap myself out of my laughter and oblige. Picking up my crazy chicken, I whisper, "Good girl" to her and put her in the pen outside.

Stepping back inside the coop, I find Rod hunched over in exhaustion. "Phew, I thought it would be tough, but you're no kidding!" he says. "It was a lot of fun, too, though. I learned a lot!" He upturns his face to me and smiles trustingly. "Thanks."

Gaussian blur. Bubbles fly through the air for no damn reason. I say absolutely nothing, but my chest lurches and my throat decides to feel like I'm gulping down marbles. I can't take it. If he shows me that kind of face again, I…

"I'd better be getting home," he says, filling me with needless disappointment. "Let me take care of them again, okay? I'm looking forward to it already!"

I nod, and as soon as he leaves, I throw myself down in some fresh hay and lay there in a warm and fuzzy daze.

"What is this feeling?" I ask myself aloud, unaware of the time and wallowing like some vapid shojo heroine. "It's love, stupid."

* * *

**This story will be marked complete until I figure out how to write more, as I already have too many stories ongoing and people ticked at me. OTL**

**Google "illust_id=26460091" for the cover art.**


	2. Chapter 2

A thousand piled fish glisten in the sun, their sightless eyes wide open to the carnage lying around them but their bodies too wasted to do anything. This fishing festival– a blight on their kind– is finally over.

Searching the gathered groups of babbling villagers, my eyes inadvertently connect with Soseki's and he gives me an impassive smile. It's the same smile he always gives me– a jaded but ditzy smirk fenced by a self-imposed distance between him and the world. Because I was unsuccessful with bridging this distance– with becoming meaningful to him– I feel guilty. It's like I proved him right or something.

But did I ever need to prove him wrong? This guilt should be over my heart's rapid switch from him to another. It should, but I know Soseki won't even miss me, so forget it. Though we saw each other every day, neither of us ever talked about the future. We never even touched upon the subject of romance. He was too busy being too old for me, and I was too busy being old before my time.

Meeting in the middle. I think it's impossible for us.

I push for the square's exit. Though I won the festival, I don't want to hear anyone congratulate me, because after hearing them degrade me for losing festivals in the past– and for even WINNING lower ranked ones– I stopped caring. I don't need lectures about how tough life is but I can beat it if I'm amazing enough. What kind of wishful thinking is that? They're festivals, not life lessons. And I just do them so everyone can gamble, drink, party, and attract tourists. Well whatever. One day when I die, they can cement my corpse, make a festival, and carry me around for kicks. That'll keep the town alive.

Before I reach the exit, a hand perches on my shoulder and brings me around– pulling me face to face with blue eyes that mirror the sky and a mouth I kind of want to taste. I admit, I may sound perverted now, but with him, I will surely get worse. The shame from this thought hits me like a brick to head, so I retreat into my neck scarf a bit and resentfully turn red. Of course I'm talking about Rod.

"Are you leaving so soon?" Rod asks worriedly, grasping my other shoulder and keeping me well in place; "Stay a while longer! Come over here and chat with everyone."

I'm almost convinced by his touch alone, but when I spot Neil and Allen watching us from behind, I hastily jerk away. "No thanks," I say. "I have crops to tend." (And I am now making this my official response for unwanted social invitations.)

"But… didn't you already finish all your work this afternoon?"

I pause.

In reverse of my regular habits, I actually DID finish tending everything this afternoon (but I doubt Rod knows these regular habits of mine, since they're quite mysterious even to myself). "No, I farm at night." I maintain my lies.

"But but," he stammers as if I've said something truly unfair, "you ALWAYS finish work early on festival days, and every other Thursday when you run low on fertilizer and need to go to the general store."

"Oh…" I hold my chin and hazily recount the past few months. "You know, I think you're right about that," I say in awe. "Amazing… I never noticed that about myself."

My abnormal bout of stupidity lasts for another minute, but then I pick up on the implications caused by him possessing this UNUSUAL knowledge about me and– well– I don't know whether to feel unsettled or flattered. Is it acceptable to feel both all at once?

In midst of my startling revelation, Rod moves me, like an alpaca, into the fold of him and my fellow antagonists.

"Good on you, I can't believe you won," Allen immediately greets and backstabs me (simultaneously!); "Have you been fishing from morning to night? You've got too much time on your hands."

My eye twitches and I go on the offense. "I can't help it," I say. "I'm just too good at useless things. You can understand, right?"

Momentarily lifting his glasses away, Allen shoots me a dark glare that says 'challenge accepted'. I guess he sees me as a rival of sorts– which is really weird for a ladykiller like him (in my opinion) because doesn't he never take women seriously? (I'll take it he doesn't see me as one, but I'm oddly ok with that.)

Neil huffs loudly to himself, which draws my attention his way. "What? You're not happy to have talent?" he mutters an insult to the wind. "I can understand that. I guess it's not necessary for a farm owner."

Echo Town farm owners wanted. No talent needed. APPARENTLY.

Yes, this is the _last_ straw on THIS alpaca's back. What further shit must I touch and turn to gold to get some respect around here? "Well. I must go," I explain abruptly. "There's more diverting matters to attend. Like getting stung by bees."

Everyone but Neil understands what I basically just said; I walk away before he can answer with something dumb like, 'That's stupid. What's the point of getting stung by bees?'

Neil. I have been sympathetic to him up until now, but I can see myself losing it in the (near) future and harvesting him with a sickle.

"Uh… Wait!" Rod bursts and runs after me, appearing rather apologetic for making only the minor mistake of including me in his peer group. "Do you really have to go back and tend to your bees?"

"Yes. I actually did forget about them." They don't moo or bay, so it's rather easy to.

"Um… Well… If you take me with you, I could help you!"

I let my eyes rest upon his spiky, strawberry blond head. I'm tempted by his offer, but I think he's probably the kind of guy who's absolutely terrified of bees (like my crazy chickens)– and as funny as this could potentially be_,_ I am worn out by this huge-ass four-day festival and would rather have some alone time. "Thanks, I appreciate it," I answer, "but I work best alone." I'm aware I just delivered the tritest line in tough-guy history, but it's the truth. I get nervous and mess up when other people are around me.

I'm also aware that I need some time to think about my recent fly-by-night infatuations. Falling for Rod is probably one of the weirdest things I've ever done. Even if it feels good, it's just all kinds of wrong. If we ever got together, I could see myself defiling him in every sense of the word. Talk about morbidly fascinating…

Rod lightly scratches his cheek– a tic I think he does when he's nervous– and I instantly regret not stuffing him in my bag for later depositing him in my pet barn. "That's… too bad," he says; "But if you could ever use my help, let me know. I'd do anything for yo– I mean– I'll do whatever I can."

Stupefied once again into seeing bubbles and shit, I stagger home– self-consciously alone– and go about my business of spritzing bees with perfume and surprisingly not getting stung by them. My two herd cats purr and follow me around (a gray cat and a half black one) and whenever I look down to speak some gushy, cutesy words at them, I see their wide trusting eyes peer up at me and I'm instantly reminded of Rod's cutie face. I guess that makes sense– these cats _were _bred by him.

I really want to hug them now.

It's not easy. Just thinking about Rod causes my heart to palpitate like I drank too much coffee or tea or something. Maybe I have– because when I go to bed, I can't fall asleep without imagining him a thousand times.

I even have a dream about him. Sitting in a place as steamy as my bathtub, I hold his hands against a wall and I… Right. This is getting too vivid a recount. But man, is it awesome. Resting my neck on my dream boy's shoulder, I kiss as far down his bare shoulder as I physically can, and when I pull back to stare into his beautiful eyes–

–IT'S ACTUALLY NEIL.

The dream is now over–since it's very merrily pranced into nightmare territory– and I fall out of bed screaming obscenities and dragging my blanket with me. I'm so confused, why is this happening?

"Hey! Wake up!" Neil's voice yells at me, and I finally understand why. "Wake up! Ugh." He kicks away my poor, disheveled blanket with his dirty boot. He's the rude sort of guy who never takes his shoes off in my house.

"Why? Why?!" I senselessly repeat over and over. (I really _do_ want to know _why_, though.)

"A ch-chick hatched, that's why," he stammers, having just enough decency to turn away so I can get my overalls on. No matter how naked I go, I still can't seem to get people to stop barging in every morning. I worry they're doing it on purpose now.

"Pfft. Waking me up over a chick," I mutter, strapping up and cramming my messy head into my cowboy hat. "Coddle it too much and the other chickens will make fun of it."

"Like you know anything about chickens!" Neil snaps. "You have one tiny coop and suddenly you think you're an expert chicken farmer."

I tie my neck scarf on and glower at him. What was THAT little snip all about? "So," I begin, trying to change the subject, "do you always hear the cries of newborn animals and anxiously rush to their sides?"

He faces me and breathes so sharply, he almost spits. "No! But I heard you crying out for Rod in your sleep just now!"

I drop my boots in shock. "You… you… you don't know the context." I manage to hand-wave.

"Whatever! I don't want to hear your excuses, you pervert! Just come tend to your chickens so I can go home." And he stomps outside so angrily, I almost feel guilty.

Naming my chick in Neil's presence is painfully awkward. And when it's over, desperately chasing after him is even worse.

"Wait!" I yell, catching up to him and shoving a quality silkie egg at his chest. "Don't tell Rod about earlier… Please! I _really_ don't want him to know how I feel. I beg of you." I clasp my hands together and bow with all my regret and humiliation– which is a rare accomplishment to squeeze out of me. I have no idea how much Neil heard, but if it was enough for him to actually _guess_ what my dream was all about, I was definitely mumbling some saucy things.

Neil hesitantly takes the egg in hand and– gazing at it petulantly– shoves it into his coat pocket. "Listen! I wouldn't have said anything anyway," he says and blushes– clearly flustered by the fact that he's easily bribed with an effing egg. "It doesn't matter to me. Who you fancy is none of my concern!" And he stomps away yet again.

As soon as he's gone, I chuckle and fall to my knees in relief. Crisis averted. I know I can believe in Neil's silence, because unlike others, he doesn't chatter and spread gossip– he doesn't even know how to do small talk. Believe me, I've been to the Animal Sanctuary enough times to know that taking a nap on the furthest hill is favorable to standing close-by and having the angriest silence ever with him. (Though after this whole ordeal, I might avoid sleeping in his presence.)

* * *

For the rest of the week, dark clouds roll in and rain falls nonstop. Maybe the heavens knew I needed a rest from all that sunshine and obnoxious festival cheer. At any rate, the cool rain falling on my body and frizzing up my hair feels wonderful– even if people bitterly complain about it everywhere I go.

Running up into the forest to do some mining, I literally bump into Hossan, who gladly tells me about how well his inn is doing, and I run into a soaked Allen– who is so melancholy about standing there in the rain– I tell him his hair is ruined just to make him go home.

Bending down to pull up some stray copper ore, I jog into the mine and the atmosphere changes as if I've entered another world. All around, lantern light casts a warm glow on the shiny valuables lying about. Before I can begin plucking them up, though, a figure in the back of the cave startles me and catches my attention.

Sneakers and a puffer vest. It's none other the boy of my X-rated dreams– Rod– who's precariously rock climbing the red mining wall in the back. Or at least trying to. "Got you!" he says, followed by a painful slip of footing, a startled cry, and a fall backwards.

With no time to feel shy over seeing him so soon, I dive to his side and panic over his sprawled body. "Are you alright? Can you speak?" I exclaim, pawing at him and holding out my arms to receive him.

Rod takes one of my offered hand and pulls himself up. "I… I think I'm good," he says and smiles forcedly. "Ouch…" Jutting his right leg out, his exposed lower shin catches my eye and I discover it's gushing out blood and swelling rapidly.

"W-what were you doing," I gasp, grabbing his ankle and examining it closely. "So much blood… This looks bad!" Yanking off my neck scarf, I tensely mop at his wound with trembling hands.

"Does it really?" he says cheekily; "It actually doesn't hurt or anything– ow!"

I wrap his leg _a little _roughly just to take the edge off my nerves. "Never mind, it's not so bad. You bled a lot for such a tiny scrape! What the hell were you climbing up there for, huh?"

"Um… This," he says uneasily, pulling out a red, eight-sided gem. "It was wedged in the wall way up high. It's a Mythic Stone! It's so rare and amazing to find one just hanging there! I… I couldn't help myself…" He scratches his face guiltily. "I usually don't do such childish things…"

I hold my forehead in lingering worry. "Rare and amazing alright," I admit. "I had no idea you liked ores… Honestly, you don't seem like the kind of guy who even likes mining."

"Well… I'm actually not in it for the work aspect," he explains. "It's just that there's something kind of romantic about digging up minerals and waking them from their long slumber in the earth."

Rod. ROD. I can't take all this cheese. Why is this guy so adorable? He's wearing goggles on his damn head and he's so wholesome, I want to bake him into an oat muffin. I can no longer hide behind my neck scarf– since that privileged little rag is now wrapped around his precious ankle– so instead– my face burns red hot in the dim lantern light, exposed. Maybe it's ok if he sees, maybe I don't mind…

But I think he does see, and he scoots closer– so much closer– that he's practically holding me in his lap. "It's like that with you… I mean, you're kind of like a mineral or gem stone," he says awkwardly, luring me in with his gooey sincerity. "Hard to unearth, but completely worth it… Ehehe… Um… Did I just say something weird?"

Losing all my capacity for intelligence at his nervous little laugh, I switch into auto-ero mode and I push up against him. "Not at all," I breathe in his ear.

This week's dream is seconds from becoming an unexpected reality– with Rod eagerly taking off my hat and me sliding off his puffer vest _(_much to his innocent confusion). But just as I begin lifting up his shirt, IN barges Allen– clad in a polkadot headscarf– and violently clashing two pot lids together like the disruptive asshole he is.

I drop Rod's shirt hem.

"_There_ you are," Allen says, discarding the ringing lids against a wall and acting like he's done nothing terribly insane. "I've decided to come back, to show you the solution to my rainy day hair problems." He grandiosely points at his headscarf and locks eyes with me. "Observe! No more ruined hair. Now then. What are you crazy kids doing up in here?" Groaning lightly, he sits down on the ground beside us, mercilessly destroying our spontaneously-created love bubble.

"Oh, Allen!" Rod greets him with a good-natured but clearly displeased smile. "I was just spending some time. Talking. With her."

My lost shame returns and I quietly pull Rod's puffer vest back on him– even zipping it up for extra measure. "He fell," I say. "So I was checking him for injuries."

"So that's what you kids call it nowadays," Allen says with a chuckle. "Heh. How can you even stand the thought of rolling around in here? You'll dirty your clothes." He stares my way. "But then again, you're rather adventurous like that, aren't you?"

Plopping my hat back on, I stand up and ignore his suggestive comments. "It's good you're here. Rod hurt his ankle," I say. "I'll go tell Dr. Klaus you're coming."

"Y-you're leaving me then?" Rod asks, his eyes as miserable as a sold animal's.

I was planning on going straight home, but my mind changes instantly. "I'll wait for you at the clinic."

"Rod," Allen says, ignoring me, "you were climbing up on something again, weren't you?"

Leaving Rod despite his downtrodden expression, I take five steps out into the pouring rain and past the mine entrance– but then stop. Inexplicably, I hang back against the shadows and listen closely to the two young mens' distantly echoing voices.

"–I did fall," Rod's half-whisper carries to my ears, "But that just now…"

I wait for Allen's arrogant voice to take full advantage of the cave's acoustics and it certainly delivers. "Yes?" it booms.

"Eragh… Aw! Why did you have to do that, you rude jerk? I had her! We were so close to h...holding hands!"

"If holding hands is some euphemism for doing it, then yes, you were very close."

"What are you saying!"

"Listen little buddy, I don't mean to ruin your fun, but she's on a different level than you. And while that might make for a great first time, she's only playing with you. The moment she gets tired of your goofiness, she'll be moving on, so don't do anything you'll regret."

"You've been my best friend for years, Allen, and I really appreciate you always looking out for me, but I can't believe you're dissing the girl I like!"

"If you don't believe me, ask Soseki. They were always together, right? And you know she flat out stopped talking to him recently… Well, I saw him dump a shiny new commitment ring in the river the other day. I asked him what _that_ was all about and he told me his 'timing was off'. You get it? She lost interest in him the moment he got serious, I'm certain of it."

Soseki? Commitment ring? These words crush down on me like the weight of a house. Grasping my face, my stomach churns and my knees go weak. Is this the truth? Soseki never mentioned anything to me– he always kept me at arm's length– he never indicated his intentions.

But didn't I do the same?

I was never so forward with him as I now am with Rod.

"Fair enough guess," Rod says with a incisive undercurrent, his bluntness dumbfounding me; "But I simply believe Soseki hesitated too much and for too long. You yourself once told me how that makes a girl feel, right? So it's his loss. Because if she were mine, I would hold on tightly and never let her go."

Rod's assertion is so mind-blowingly confident, I almost can't believe it's really him speaking. It's like Allen is performing some very skilled voice mimicry or demonic body-possession.

"Pfft. I know you think you understand how a pro does it," Allen responds matter-of-factly, "but watching and doing are two different things. Like me, that woman is more experienced than you are. Unlike any of us, though, I can read her easily. Let me tell you this, pal: Soseki and you aren't the first ones she's messed around with."

"I don't care, _pal_. Why are you even telling me all this?"

"I'm looking out for you, obviously."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not a kid anymore, I'm an adult!"

"HA. Keep telling yourself that and it might come true."

"And keep on liking the sound of your own voice, you egotist!"

"Right. Sure thing, cream puff."

"I'm not a cream puff! If I'm a cream puff, you're a cabbagey old pot sticker!"

"You have a lot of nerve for a runt… You'll receive a bad haircut when you least expect it, got it?"

"Fine! I'll learn how to cut my own hair from now on, you self-seeker!"

"Go ahead and try, cream puff, this will be interesting."

"Grr! Stop it stop it–" I hear smacking noises, like the sound of Rod's little fists being blocked.

"–Pathetic."

Their discussion devolves into further name-calling and squabbling, so I decide to leave and visit Dr. Klaus as promised. I deliver a blue moondrop and the news to the peevish doctor– and when the expected party arrives (still arguing) he instructs them to shut up and sit down. He also identifies Rod's injury as a light sprain and small cut, cleaning up and re-bandaging it along with a satisfying amount of scolding. (Satisfying to me, at least.)

"I trust you'll supervise your friend better from now on," Dr. Klaus finishes lecturing Allen, picking up Rod's bloodied, makeshift-bandage (once my neck scarf) and tossing it into the garbage. "You may go home now. Put him to bed immediately and elevate his foot. No walking on it until the swelling starts to go down, you understand?"

With a brief goodbye, I head home in the darkness, the soft buzz of Rod's voice touching me through the rain as Allen lugs him back the other way. Though Allen loudly complains about how heavy he is, I secretly wish I was the one supporting Rod.

With this sullen thought, I recall last Summer, and the cold rain dissipates into the sensory memory of me carrying Soseki home from the clinic on my back after he 'ate' too much. His long sweaty arms, wrapped around my neck, slide up and down as we travel and his wine-soaked breath, belting out notes, fills the humid air with the lyrics of a senile old horse driver's song:

_"Cicadas cry–_

_The stream flows low–_

_She can herd us across– calm– _

_But not after– tomorrow–"_

Just like that, I carried Soseki all the way back to his house.

In hindsight, it's no wonder Soseki's love never reached me. That day, when he thoughtlessly confessed how I 'washed away' all the filth inside him, he quickly took it back and insisted he was only playing with me.

I never did ask him about the accident that wounded him and led him here to town. Mostly because if I were him– I would never want to tell anyone.

Like my memories, I fade away in the rain and back to my farm. Though I know what love is, I'm still too stupid for it.

* * *

**Keeping this story marked complete because I'm just that flaky. Oh, and this chapter isn't for kids. (Yeah, putting this warning at the end isn't very helpful, hm? lol.)**


	3. Chapter 3

After pouring so livelily throughout the night, every bit of rain vanishes by late morning, which is the time when I drag my tired ass out of bed. Bolting outside and setting down some food and love for my cats and livestock, I reflect on last night's overheard gossip and my mood swiftly going rancid.

How does ALLEN of all people get away with shaming me like I'm some kind of toxically abusive heartbreaker? If there's one thing I despise more than tsunderes, it's effing hypocrites. Just thinking about how he waltzed in on me and Rod last night, only to spout lies about me behind my back, makes me want to throw a log through his salon's upstairs window, especially when he's got a woman up there with him (and even though I made that damn window to begin with).

I know… Rioting won't solve anything in this case, so I chalk up my anger to the fact that I'm really into Rod and I can't stand the thought of him ever thinking bad about me– especially due to Allen's meddling. But Rod's confident words from last night helps me feel a little confident, even if I can't fight the sinking feeling that we're only delaying the inevitable.

Of course I'm aware that Rod likes me (hell yes)– and I like him. I'm not so stupid. But I'm also aware that given time, even the most lovey-dovey of couples will grate on each other's nerves and end up tearing into each other. One day, Rod will discover something in me that drives him insane, just like with the guys in the town before the last– who resented my neglectfulness– or the guys in the last town– who wanted to cage me.

Whenever I feel threatened, I run away. Whenever it concerns love, I display the same typical cowardice that had set my whole crazy life in action. If it happens again, I'll have nowhere to go. This was the last possible place, after all.

I don't want to give up this land. It's all I have.

Climbing out of the bath, I lay my animal-stained overalls aside and slip into a fresh red pair, eyeing a big box of envelopes sitting inside my armoire. These letters– all of them from Dunhill and addressed to my parents– are what brought me here in the first place. Otherwise, I would've never known this property even existed.

How nostalgic. The first letter I ever read from Dunhill– before reading and memorizing the whole collection– goes like this:

_It's Dunhill._

_Your farm is still here, exactly as you left it. It's been years since I've last heard from you. I've sent you so many letters, and I don't know why I keep sending them. Maybe I hope they'll reach you somehow. I guess it's just an old man's delusion, eh?_

_I wonder where these letters go?_

I myself wonder if Dunhill still sends my parents these letters. And I wonder if he was terribly surprised when I half-jokingly sent him that reply one day:

_The daughter finally came back. I'm sending her to take care of the farm as punishment._

I left it unsigned because I couldn't remember either of my parents' signatures. I never expected him to reply back and encourage my punishment so enthusiastically.

In spite of how angry I feel about everything, I soften up and decide it's a good time to go and make nice with Soseki. He may be a handsome doddery bastard who drunkenly eats old coins, but he deserves an explanation for my change of heart– even if it's too late.

Mid-afternoon is when I find him, sprawled out on the riverbank with his arms folded behind his head and looking like he didn't give a shit about anything– as usual. I almost lose my nerve, but I crunch across the dying grass anyway and sit right beside him. Glancing over at his sun-warmed face, I find he's chewing some grass like a cow– or farmer (if there's any difference) and I can't help but wonder if he even notices my presence.

Minutes pass. Nothing is said. I watch Soseki's chest rise and fall as he breathes under the folds of his purple cotton kimono, his jaw's infinite stubble twitching as he chews.

"Just so you know, it was because I was intimidated," I say, pulling my knees close, "by your age."

"So was I," he responds. "So was I." He would end the conversation then and there if I let him.

"I don't know when I fell out of love with you, exactly. Probably Fall 10." I estimate. "You didn't do anything particularly wrong. I had been in love with you up until to that point, though, just so you know."

"Good."

"I must confess I've also been deceiving you. There's nothing pure or purifying about me. Just so you know."

This comment (and redundant addendum) is finally enough to get him to sit up and look me up and down. "I don't know why you're giving me a break-up speech, or prose, but there's no need for you to do so– we never went out in the first place," he rambles on, lightly scolding me. "And if you're trying to tell me you're not the good girl I know you are, I'll more than likely laugh to your embarrassment. Up until my age, everything you've ever done and ever will have done will all have been innocent– all because you didn't know any better."

"I don't believe that. Mostly because there's no such thing as an innocent murder."

"Why mention such a thing, are you going to kill me?"

I have to commend his bullshitting ability, so I do. "I always used to love how I could talk to you for hours about basically nothing. It kept me from asking you real questions, like 'Do you love me?' or 'Why did you come to this ghost town, really?'"

"Nothing's changed. You can still talk with me in such ways," Soseki says, reaching behind him and pulling out a fishing rod. "That is, if your new boyfriend doesn't mind." He casts the line. "Rod, is he? The pet shop boy." He gives me a sidelong grin. "He's practically a newborn baby."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"I was never your boyfriend."

"Fair enough," I say. "But he's not a baby."

"I can't blame you for choosing him, I must've really hammered home the point of how old I was. To be honest with you, I was always hoping you'd find a younger man than me. You might've gone overboard, though."

Hearing Soseki insult Rod really pisses me off. Similarly, I have a feeling this is how Rod felt the other night. "What is so wrong about my choice?" I ask. "Sure he dresses a little differently, but at least I know he'll never drown." This is actually an important point to me.

Soseki laughs so hard he throws aside the rod.

"Come on, what is so wrong about him?" I ask again.

Wiping his face to settle his laughter, Soseki shakes his head. "Allen's exactly your type, you both would be a very cheeky couple. Even Neil would look better with you, you two would give off that 'into their own little world together' vibe. But Rod and you? How to describe it… it's like a puppy getting with a kitten. Cute but freakish."

"Screw you."

"You asked my opinion."

I broil in disgust and outrage. "I'd better be the kitten."

Soseki reaches over and gently strokes my head, and it feels so good, I lean into it and immediately calm down.

"If your boyfriend saw this," Soseki says, "he'd get the wrong idea."

"Soseki," I say, closing my eyes. "Why did you come to this town? What happened back where you were?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I've been wanting to know for a very long time. I always believed that if we ever got married, you'd finally tell me."

He pulls his hand away– along with all the good feelings it gave me. "I might've told you this before," he explains quietly. "but I was a reporter. A police reporter, to be exact. A highly respected one. One who dressed sharp and ran 'Last night's killings' to print with more coldheartedness than the criminals themselves, if you can imagine that. My last assignment… Ah," he sighs deeply. "It was a woman's murder in the capital's mountainside. She was a diplomat from a faraway country."

"Did you get hurt?"

"Are you telling the story here?"

"No…"

"Good. Never tell anyone." He holds his chin and glances aside. "Long story short, I was at the crime scene before the blood had even dried, as usual, documenting the investigation and watching it unfold. The whole story sounded off, so I began poking around… That's when I found someone hiding nearby, a frightened man who seemed to have witnessed the murder. And that's when it happened." He stops reflectively.

"What?"

"I was bashed over the head by an unknown assailant, that's what. By the next day, I was dug out– unconscious– from a layer of fallen rock below a nearby cliff. The witness I had coaxed out at the time of the attack… his dead body was found a little deeper in."

Struck speechless by Soseki's blunt but brutal account, I embrace my knees tightly and imagine him buried under a flood of dust and rubble– an image which I can't shake off. These kinds of gruesome things… I'll never understand why they happen. This world beyond my puny grasp enrages me to no end.

"The guilt of that man's death. My injuries. When it all toppled down on me, I lost my spark and purpose in life," Soseki says quietly, closing his eyes and lowering his head. "Even after the investigation, they never caught the murderer, just like that. And ever since that day, I've had an endless headache and a stabbing pain all over that never fades, though it's probably what I deserve, huh? I've healed a bit, but it's still hard to focus and my memory is a joke of what it once was. I was given less work– just small stories– before the newsroom stopped calling me in altogether. I felt so useless, so mistrustful of everyone, it was embarrassing, so I…" Noticing my face and pulling it closer– almost in disbelief– he brushes away the tears beading-up in my eyes. "So I retired," he finishes, grabbing me into a hug. "And I heard about this town of yours, this place being restored by a little girl, so I was curious to see it. "

"Thank you," I utter, unable to express my gratitude or the nostalgic warmth welling up inside of me, since I can barely comprehend the warmth of his long arms wrapped around me. After what he's told me, I want to tell him everything about me as well– and to even follow through with a millisecond of love's temptation– but this is enough for us. Always will be. "I only ever wanted to know more about you, and to get closer to you like this." I cling onto him tightly, since I'll never do it again. "Thanks for putting up with a stupid brat, and for giving her a chance. I don't blame you if you blame me for all the bad things this time around."

"Shh, don't say any more nonsense– and that's enough fawning over me. You really know how to make an old man happy, don't you?"

Ordinarily I would find such a comment exasperating, but I know Soseki means it well– so I laugh. I pull away, one last time, and his warmth leaves me.

As we part beneath the fluttering of autumn leaves, our short romance ends and the seed of a lifetime friendship is planted instead. Or so I hope, since I don't know what the hell happens next.

I wish I did.

Of the living shadows looming on the riverside that afternoon, I only noticed mine and Soseki's.

But, leaving the area, I encounter the third. My eyes meet with Allen's and his cryptic smirk. He stops, but neither of us speak and I run right past him, my nervous sweat chilling in the spinning autumn breeze.

What a coincidental encounter. I guess I should explain my thoughts more: Allen is bad news. It's cruel, but just the way he settles his eyes on me during festivals makes me feel a very schizo brand of paranoia– like he's recorded my profile with very tiny letters in some Big Book of Women bound in human skin and kept on a pedestal in some men's club. It's presumptuous, and I usually don't let my imagination get me, but after fathoming what he could've seen today (Soseki and me)– and how he might otherwise misconstrue it to Rod (Soseki and me canoodling in broad daylight)– I am mentally and physically shaken.

With an unsmiling face, I tend my crops and another sleepless night passes. Waking up the next morning, I bumble to take care of my animals, absentmindedly drop their treats, feed the wrong ones to the wrong type, lose half the barnyard's respect in the process, and fan the growing flames of a revolution. (All legitimate concerns.) At the end of it all, I'm such a frazzled mess, I need a bath and maybe a hard drink.

Re-entering my abode, I throw off my hat and boots and promptly unbuckle my confining overalls. Not that I'm complaining about them; I love overalls and boy do I need them in multiple colors, but sometimes, just occasionally, I must commence getting naked ASAP. (These occasions are daily ok.)

Bringing the tangle of straps and thick blue jean down around my thighs, I notice my door has clicked open and I stop to see why. I half-expect Dunhill or even the harvest sprites to be there, wearing hilariously disturbed frowns, but when I discern Rod instead, gawking at me and quietly going red, I also go speechless. My reaction is quite different compared the usual ones, which often include me saying something demented like, 'Problem, constable?' or 'Come back when I have pants on.'

Jumping backwards, Rod shuts himself out before I can reformat either greeting into a slightly more appropriate one. Or before I can slap him. (Hey, I wouldn't, but it's probably what he expects. Can't disappoint.)

"I'm… I'm sorry!" he shouts a muffled apology through the door; "I should've knocked! But I didn't really see anything. I looked away almost immediately!" He sounds so worried and ashamed (and contradictory), I bite my lips and claw at my face before spritzing myself with some herby bee perfume and throwing my things back on. (I have no idea why I just decided to wear perfume now of all times.)

"It's ok," I yell to Rod, hauling butt to swing the door back open. "I was just getting dressed," I lean on the doorframe, completely out of breath. "Did you need me?"

Despite having had several minutes alone to compose himself, Rod gawks at me with the same disoriented and colorful expression he had on earlier. It's a primitive thought– I know– but I can't help but wonder how similar his face might look if I pulled him inside and threw him on the bed. And then my face goes red as well.

"Oh… Right!" Rod begins hurriedly, pulling out a yellow backpack and fumbling to zip it open. Pulling out a small paper bag, he drops the backpack and I hear dishes clank. "I wanted to return this to you! Though actually… It's not the same one, since it didn't wash out too well. But I asked the tailor to make another exactly like it. Please accept it!" He pushes the paper bag at me and I curiously take it in hand.

Unfurling the crushed paper, I pull out a vivid red neck scarf which has never been touched by sun, sweat, or Rod's blood, and I realize that he must've dug through the clinic's garbage before getting this one made. "Y-you didn't have to do this," I say, feeling so self-conscious, my arms start shaking. "But thank you anyway. It was thoughtful of you." Especially since he was _supposed_ to have stayed off his feet yesterday; I can only imagine the scolding Klaus gave him. "Does your ankle feel any better?"

Balancing on one leg, Rod brings his bandaged leg up and shows me. "The doctor put ice on it yesterday so it feels much better today," he says, sweating a bit when he notices how stern my gaze has become; "I'm fine already, I can handle it! Don't be like that, I'm strong enough!"

Without me even saying anything, Rod's already jumping on the defense like I'm viciously crushing his manhood with my foot (a careless habit I should really monitor, since it's why I make enemies with men so easily). For shame; I'm filled with all sorts of bad habits in that vein– such as lying habitually or even showing my affection in worrying ways. After so many arguments and fights with lovers in the past, I should learn by now: Nothing good ever comes of my affection. This cold truth, chilling to my core, hits me like Winter's early-arriving winds. Tying on my new neck scarf, I turn away. "Thanks for the trouble," I tell him, stepping out. "If that's all. Later."

Before I can take two steps, Rod grabs me by the back of my overall straps. I'm so surprised, I stop to stare back at him. "Wait," he says importantly, holding his grip. "Have you got some time? I was just about to head out to the top of the mountain for a picnic." His smile radiates a youthful kind of energy which soothes away all my disquiet. "Would you like to come with me?"

I gaze into his face before nodding slowly. "Ok," I say, motioning towards my restrained straps. "But no leashes on the first date."

His blush returns in full force and he slips his hands away. "Great!" he ejects, tolerating my sass almost _too_ happily. "Let's go!"

Is he overjoyed that I called this a date or something? Following him, I hold my hot forehead and feel blood pulsing in my temples. I guess even I'm getting a little excited… I just called this a date, didn't I?

During our ascent up the mountain, I stay behind Rod and closely watch over his limping leg– forcing myself to remain calm but ready to help every time he trips and stumbles. I want to carry him, or at least force him to take a rest, but I can imagine him getting completely offended over either option. For a moment, I pause and consider playing the 'helpless girl' card. He would be OK with resting if I was to blame for slowing us down, right? I feel cruel for thinking this way, but that's how most guys are.

Yeah, it's unfair to pigeonhole him like that, but what to do? He's acting all cheerful of course, but I can tell he's in excruciating pain.

Catching onto my slow pace, Rod lags behind as well. "What's up?" he asks worriedly. "Are you worn out? Do you need a break?" He sounds so concerned and uneasy, I feel troubled for wanting to lie to him. Guilty even. (Though I am a little worn out after last night's unrest, so it'd be a half-truth sorta thing.)

But I can't do it.

"We're so close." I shake my head and breath sharply. "I'm okay!" I add, since he doesn't seem convinced himself.

I guess this is a reversal of events.

And I guess Rod's outing is going exactly as he'd planned, since he's practically singing and there's a spring in his step. "Let's press on, then," he says, taking my wrist and pulling me forward through the crunchy grass and blasting wind. "Just a little more and we'll be there, Rio! It'll be worth it."

Even though he's said my name before, it feels oddly important this time– almost as if it's just regained all its lost meaning through his voice alone. This name– my name– the one given to me by my parents. It was meant to be called by the ones closest to me, wasn't it? Though I'm frowning to force down a smile, my face burns up with intense happiness. I wouldn't mind it if he called my name forever.

Have I ever felt this intensely?

Side by side, we make it past the Goddess pond and up to the mountain summit, where we take in its breathtaking view of painted hills and open sky. Stretching for the sun, we stop and stare into each other's eyes.

"We made it!" Rod cheers and raises his fists, invigorated by our success. "Great work, Rio."

"Hm! Not too bad yourself," I say, maybe killing the moment.

He takes my knock in stride. "I made lunch for us. Do you want to eat it together, Rio?"

He's been saying my name so much now, it's like he's doing it on purpose. Am I making a silly expression whenever he says it or something? Falling back into silence, I think about that homemade lunch he just mentioned, and how it was probably what was clanking around in his bag back at my house and throughout our journey.

Understandably, Rod takes my silence as an insult. "Hey, that's not a very nice reaction!" he exclaims. "I live alone, so I cook! I cook pretty well! I've got confidence in today's spread, too. Come on, let's eat!"

Since his misunderstanding is a little amusing, I chuckle, which eggs him on further. As he _very seriously _unfolds and spreads out a checkered picnic blanket, I crash onto it and roll to the edge. I'm a little curious to see how he'll put up with me when I'm being difficult, so I rudely laze about. (I have to know how controlling he is, after all, since controlling guys and I don't mix.) "What ya got?" I ask, tugging the blanket corner over me and hiding.

Digging through his backpack, Rod pulls out and displays an obscene amount of food and drinks. "I have potstickers, spring rolls, cabbage rolls, potato bread, pilaf… spicy curry," he lists, carefully pushing the last item closer to me. "As well as milk tea and all your favorite beverages."

No longer interested in testing his patience, I sit up and try not to drool. If I didn't know any better, I'd say these were ALL my favorites. "I really love this, all of it," I murmur, poking at the plastic wrap on the potstickers and breathing in the adjacent spicy curry's delicious sweetness. I'm rather curious to know how he even knew what I liked, but I concede there must be some crazy cheat sheet or master list out there somewhere. Who knows. Who cares? This is some good food, so I dig in with a ravenous appetite. I can't help it.

Rod takes a small bite of the rice pilaf and smiles at how hungrily I'm consuming everything. (A majority of guys would be disgusted instead, I think.) "Well?" he asks. "Tastes pretty good, doesn't it?"

I nod. I would love to eat his cooking forever, but of course I don't say this aloud, since it'd sound like a far-eastern marriage proposal or whatever. (Iroha was telling me all about _that_ one day weeks back. When some guys in her country propose, they say shit like 'Please make my miso soup forever.' Geez. How whacked up is that? As whacked up as I am, I guess, since I'd totally propose that way...)

I don't understand how Rod always manages to show such a beaming smile, but he does it anyway. "I knew you'd like it! I'd make a pretty good homemaker, don't you think?" he asks, appearing to be a little too excited to know what he's even saying, since he's blushing like a drunkard. "I think having a boyfriend like me would really help you out, Rio."

A spring roll slips from my fingers and I freeze in place. Did he really just suggest that? All on his own? He's so on my wavelength, it's effing preposterous.

Rod sobers up instantly. "Oh," he mutters, painfully aware of what he just indicated– and fidgeting about accordingly, "did I just say that out loud? I'm just talking to myself, don't worry! I had fun today, Rio. Let's go out again soon!"

Dazed, I nod.

This is it, this has to stop. I'm not waiting around and making any more mistakes, I mean it.

Finishing up lunch, we shake out the blanket and head back. This time, however, I hand him a stick to lean on and he compliantly takes and uses it.

As we part ways, I stop in front of the general store and stare up at its thatched roof. It's closed today, but open tomorrow.

Tomorrow, then. On monday, I'm buying a damn ring.

* * *

**kfrgdgkdfghd. Thanks for your support, everyone. I'm posting this in a hurry but I'll come back later and edit it. I should also remove 'complete' status since this chapter is a cliffhanger, hrmgh...**

**(Ok, back. Edited. Thanks again!)  
**


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, I stare at the little white velvet ring box standing open before me.

I did it. After entering and exiting the general store numerous times, I psyched myself up enough to go forth and ask Hana to show me some rings.

When she pulled out a drawer and plunked it down on the counter, I was overwhelmed by a jewelry collection that reminded me of my own– or at least the collection which I'd sold prior to setting out on my own. (All the funds and pieces from it are now gone forever by the way, since I traveled a long way and used it all up in food and fare. Money well spent, in my opinion. Brooches, necklaces, earrings, and rings– them and the money itself were reminders of past lovers and bad memories, so good riddance.)

The only ring now in my possession, the thick platinum band standing before me with its six gemstone chips– alternating topaz and diamond– is something I bought through my own labor and intentions. So begins a new chapter in my life– one with a refreshing twist. This time I control the romance.

And this time the guy I'll be with is gentle and kind and isn't going to frame me for theft or try to buy me as a pet– or fight over me with his brother or stuff me in his harem– or trap me in a literally gay love triangle or any of that dramatic bullshit I'm sick of. Rod is the most perfect guy I could ever dream to find and I won't run away anymore. No more cold feet. No more mistakes and bad calls. I really want to spoil him and love him well. I want him.

Rubbing my hot face, my cold hands quickly warm up. This little commitment ring is the first step to officially start dating, and eventually get married, but I'm already at a loss of how to go about the whole thing. For a girl to confess to a boy, even if he's into her… isn't there usually a low success rate? Mere conditions probably change it, like the weather, the day, the mood, and how romantic the scenery is at the time of the confession.

And of course the condition of the girl herself.

Taking my blonde hair in hands, I cringe when I see how frayed and uneven my locks are. Some strands are even split four ways. _'Dog girl,'_ I hear Allen's voice taunt me. Holding my head, I grind my teeth, trying to force the maddening sound out. "And I still have to deal with that guy," I say, popping out a blood vessel.

There's no beating about the issue: I have to straighten Allen out before he causes any needless drama. For his type, I have to confront him personally and make my intentions known. Maybe even threaten him a little if he's hostile. Standard subjugation will do, but if there's any desperation, I could threaten his livelihood in town. I built it, I can do that.

Yes, I can be a evil and calculating little tumor when I want something. Otherwise I'm mostly benign. But though I strive to eradicate problems in the most exacting way possible, I also try to be civil by working it out first. No needless drama, after all.

Putting on my cowhide hat, I put a load of homemade pudding in my farm's shipping bin, saddle my horse, and ride out. To use a tired expression, I would say it was time to kill two birds with one stone.

Shoving into hair salon I wait at the front counter, the door jingling closed behind me. Allen, who's busy towel drying some plastic curler rods at the counter, notices me and radiates an obnoxious aura of satisfaction. "Good girl," he says, insinuating another dog insult was to follow. "She finally came to me for a bath and grooming."

"I need a styling," I say lowly, on the verge of throwing the counter at him. "I trust you know a good hairstyle that'll go with my hat?"

Pushing the curling rods aside, he walks around and leads me to the back. "If you want a 'good hairstyle'," he says, whipping out a shampoo cape and _shoving_ me into my seat, "then that hat must go." He kicks the seat's lever and boosts me up so high, it'd be difficult to escape if necessary.

"Just a light trim, then," I say, managing to keep calm (even though it feels like I'm heading for the guillotine).

Spinning my chair in his direction, Allen pushes his face into mine and simpers. "I don't do 'light trims', I do masterpieces."

I grit my teeth to keep from head-butting him in the face. "Then a coloring, too."

He dangles a keyring of hair samples over me. "Then pick a color," he says, shaking them so jerkily, it's hard for me to tell them apart.

"As a professional," I say offhandedly, snatching the samples. "You must take great pride in your work– since you insist on doing it perfectly." I flip through the samples. "That's why you wouldn't give a bad haircut when one least expects it… right?" I find a sufficient hair color– a shade of 'green' so blonde it's practically what I already have– and I hand it to him.

He takes the sample, his eyes showing his awareness towards my statement– because– I had just said the same thing he'd secretly threatened Rod with a few nights back. (An unexpectedly bad haircut, that is.)

With his pride in check, Allen takes off my hat and drapes the shampoo cape over me. Checking my hair to see if it's clean enough (a slight I ignore), he runs his fingers along my scalp in a manner which I would call a massage if I wanted to praise him.

Closing my eyes, I start to relax and even ignore the gunk he rubs along my hairline. Funny how I could go to sleep in the enemy's hands– a most unwise move.

Alert to my sentiments, Allen moves in closer to speak. "Are my hands as good as Soseki's?" he asks, reminding me how he saw us the other day by the river.

"Enough so," I respond. "But I'm not paying extra for it."

Allen scoffs in mild disbelief. "Don't fret, pooch, it's part of the package for fixing your horrendous hair." Taking a brush to said hair, and then sliding in clips to section it off, he mixes my color and brushes it on– strand by strand– at a maddening speed which covers my entire head within moments.

"Keep track of the time for me," Allen orders, running a comb through my goop-frosted locks once more and snapping a shower cap around my skull. "I need to get the portable sink ready." (Because when I built this place, I forgot to install the most important fixture apparently.) "You'll tell me when fifteen minutes pass, understood?"

I nod, my cheeks twitching in latent indignation. Sitting still, eyes closed, I think about the ordeal I still have to follow through with, and I try to compose myself by concentrating on happier thoughts. Drumming my fingers on the chair's leather armrest, I consider commissioning a skirt thing from Yuri, since I own nothing but colorful overalls.

To confess to Rod while wearing unkempt hair and the below-average garb I pull udders in… ergh. I'm no clotheshorse but I'm savvy enough to know better; wearing a nice skirt is instrumental for persuading a man– whether he likes it or not.

Evil and calculating alright.

The location for the ideal confession spot is still up for consideration. Maybe it should be in or near the mine. Maybe it should be on the terrace part of my farm, since I recall Rod describing it as a 'magical' place long ago. He was onto something, because once the on-site geyser bursts for the day, sunlight diffuses through the mist and makes the air all glittery and slow-mo. It'd create the perfect mood, too, especially since we'd also be totally alone.

And if I put up some brick walls– or even a giant hedge maze– I could install a bench in the center for making-out on right afterwards. Or maybe several benches, for switching things up. And a garden table. For unmentionable reasons.

Drumming my fingers faster at this last thought, my face heats up. It's hateful to admit to it but Neil was right. I AM perverted. Weird how I didn't notice it until I noticed Rod…

"Are you bad with time or are you just daydreaming?" Allen asks, rolling the portable sink in from behind and staring at me from the table mirror.

I straighten my back. "Those two things are related, yes," I say, missing the point.

"Right. It's now eighteen minutes past, lay back, if you can manage that." He reclines my chair and removes my cap. "I'm washing the dye out, because if we leave it in any longer, your hair will turn mint."

Laying my head into the sink basin, I stare up at Allen's big square glasses and freeze. It was time– time to state my designs concerning his best friend– time to engage in verbal combat– time to duel.

I bite my lips– ready to speak– but then Allen dunks me under the faucet and slathers me all over with a strong chamomile-scented shampoo. "What's up?" he asks, roughly grabbing my head and blasting me up the nose (and down my shirt and cape) with the sprayer. "Are you fascinated by how cool I look while I'm working?"

Momentarily breathing through my mouth, drowning while he scrubs me like a dirty potato, I lurch from the water, drenched down to my bra, and scowl uncontrollably. "Do I LOOK like I enjoy being manhandled by YOU?" I yell, dripping all over the chair. "Always touting you're a professional and then acting like a weird ass– take your hands off me!" I point ahead, seething. "_Stand over there._"

Perturbed by my outburst, Allen runs his hands through his hair and tries to play it off. "Boy, why are you barking at me like this all of a sudden?" He pulls a face but moves to the allotted space anyway. "You've got some balls ordering me around! Though, I guess I shouldn't expect anything less from you."

"Expect nothing less, then." I sling water off my face. "Since I'm taking your best friend and all."

"Taking him for a ride, you mean. Like how you took Soseki."

"That's… that's all in your head!"

Allen loses his smirk and pierces me with his critical eyes. "No, you're just _that_ transparent to me, pooch," he says; "I know more about you than you'd like to believe. Your body language, your thoughts, your doubts, your history, I can even read and predict all."

I laugh at his absurd claims of wizardry. "You don't know me. You can't see me. Soseki, too– he never really saw me. But Rod sees… It's like he finally opened me up. I'll concede you're right on one thing, though: I've loved a few others in the past. But it's different now. Go ahead, look right through me and see how serious I am. I love Rod." I turn red, since it's weird declaring this to someone else. "And I want to settle down with him… You heard me."

Visibly baffled, Allen spends a full minute blankly staring at me before wandering to the supply cabinet and pulling out a stack of towels. Placing them on my lap and taking one, he gently towel dries my hair.

Taking a towel as well, I stuff it under my shampoo cape to keep warm– since it feels like I took a dunk in an effing rice paddy.

Peace at last.

As Allen conditions and works out my hair, I consider that perhaps my honest words have moved him into accepting my relationship with his best friend (since he's treating me like a real customer and all). He combs and re-sections my hair, and as he snips away at my ends– I watch him work through the mirror with great anxiousness.

Sighing deeply, Allen stops what he's doing and closes his eyes. "Oh boy…" he says at long last, tugging off his glasses. "You've got no taste in men. None."

Folding my hands, I frown confusedly. "Huh?" I mutter, ill-at-ease. "By 'men', do you also mean your childhood friend?"

Once again, our conversation takes a turn for the ambiguous. Am I not worthy of Rod or is it the other way around? Is this guy just saying any old shit just to drive me away from his bro or is he just exercising his voice?

Annoyed by my doggedness, Allen tenses his unsmiling face. "How long have you known Rod?" he asks in a critical tone; "Barely a year? Actually two weeks? Try my total of over eighteen years." Rubbing the corner of his eye, he slips his glasses back on and smirks reservedly. "In your stunted opinion, you think you're deeply in love at this point… But what kind of love develops in a mere two weeks, anyway?"

"Lust, ordinarily."

Allen smiles. "I have to say… you're not cute at all. I get why you're so ignorant about Rod, but I'll have you know… he only likes cute and cheerful girls. Girls like Michelle or Tina, for instance."

"Rod does? Sounds like your own preference."

"I'll admit, I also find them cute."

I nod to keep the conversation from steering away. "Right, so, I came here today to trust you with my hair. How about that." It takes a lot of chutzpah to trust my enemy won't snip off my ear.

"What do you want, a medal?"

I want Rod you dumbass. We literally established this twenty minutes ago. "I dunno, maybe you could tell me more about your life with Rod? Since you've had eighteen-plus years with him and all."

"Rod Rod, that's all you ever talk about. I'll tell you about him, then, since you're so interested." Allen huffs. "For starters, he's the kind of guy who gives up easily and cries whenever he stumbles and falls. A pushover. He can't figure things out by himself and he always needs his hand held. A total dork! He had a babyish lisp until he was twelve… He wet the bed until he was fourteen! That's Rod! The one you want to date!"

"…"

"Oh, and he doesn't believe it… but he still sucks his thumb in his sleep sometimes!"

"Goodness," I say, mortified in Rod's place and maybe channeling the spirit of his long-suffering childhood with Mr. Perfect here; "You really do like the sound of your own voice. I bet you like the smell of your own farts, too."

Reaching for the hair dryer, Allen shoots it full heat in my face.

"DO IT, ASSHOLE!" I yell over the deafening motor. He obliges, but WHY? As the air burns at my face, I wince from the building pain and he aims the airflow to the back of my head, fluffing my hair with his hands to keep my scalp from further roasting. Such mercy from him is surprising, especially since he's always so stupidly aggressive– and especially since he doesn't seem to accept me (OR Rod) as a responsible adults! It's almost like…

He's envious of me.

As this suspicion grips me, so does the realization that I've been in this scenario before. There's different variables this time, but it's happening all over again– by fate's whim, I'm back in another tired old formula. There must be only a handful of walk-in gay love triangles in this world, but for the second time in my life, I'm working opposite the hypotenuse.

Where are my favorable odds? Maybe it's an insensitive and narrow-minded thing to think, but It's like this world– and every man living it– was penned by a shrieking pit of hungry yaoi fangirls. (If that makes any sense. I'm going crazy here ok.)

Allen turns off the hair dryer. "There, I did it," he says, wrapping up the cord and smiling proudly. "I've repaired your failure as a woman. Really, no need to thank me, working miracles is my job."

"Allen," I say, my body reduced to a bundle of miserable nerves. "I'm such a fool. Could it be, after all this time, you've been in love with…"

He halts and regards me, his brows raised anxiously.

"…Rod?" I ask finally. After all these years of protecting and watching over his best friend– while keeping numb via an unsatisfactory flow of woman– has Allen been harboring an unrequited and forbidden love for him? What the hell, I don't know what to do. If it's true, I won't run away this time. For once, I'll fight. No seriously, what the hell.

"Congratulations, you finally understand," Allen says slowly, shaking his head and breathing through his teeth, "what a incredible fool you are."

I contemplate his answer, but it's still unclear to me. "So… you really are a homo?"

Gripping the edge of my cape, Allen rips it off and throws it aside. Climbing onto me, and resting his hands on my backrest, he traps me in-between the chair and his chest, with no where left to squirm. "I've had enough," he says, his beady blue eyes trained on my nose. "Did you think I'd let you do whatever you want? Do you actually think I like it when you tease me like this?"

Shocked, my eyes widen. If anything, I think this is the part where he slashes my throat with a razor blade. Balling my fists and bringing them close, I get ready to block or sock, but something is stopping me from taking the violent route through him.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, bewildered by this whole event. "But you're confusing me."

Sliding his fingers into my hair, Allen pulls my face closer to his and I jerk back. I'm no longer in the scenario I thought I was, but this scenario is still familiar to me with the sensations it invokes– that is– of being grabbed and held by an overlapping memory of rough hands. Every time a man takes me like this, he gets mixed in with all the others and I can no longer tell them apart.

No uniqueness, no love. Or can I just not tell anymore?

Unable to bring me in closer, Allen scoffs at my resistance and leans in for my mouth. No, NO. This is not happening, damn it all AND the horse it rode in on. Milliseconds from our lips connecting– in the greatest debacle ever conceived– I take a chance, throw back my head, and puff out a long burst of hot breath at his glasses, steaming them all over and obstructing his vision. Unhanding me and groaning in aggravation, he yanks them off and watches helplessly as his lenses gradually de-fog. It effing worked.

Pushing up from my chair and bolting over the side, I reach for the door when all of a sudden, Allen explodes with laughter.

"You're so much fun! You get so serious so easily," he rasps out, holding his forehead and nearly crying from laughter, "it just makes me want to tease you more! I'm just kidding of course! You actually thought I wanted to kiss someone like you?"

I stare at him severely.

"Oh, my sides… You pass," he says, clearing his throat and wiping his glasses off on his shirt. "To tell you the truth, you're the very first one to do so. I mean it. All the girls who ever showed an interest in Rod, they were all only after me. I guess you're not a girl, huh?"

Remembering I'd forgotten something, my eyes search the room. Retrieving my hat from the side table, Allen holds it out to me.

I approach cautiously and snatch it away.

"Oh, don't be like that. Come on, I'll tell you more," Allen explains, motioning for me to join him. "Rod was targeted all the time by heartbreakers, so I did him the favor… of breaking them before they broke him. Can you blame me? Of course not. Once I tempted them, they couldn't resist me. In fact, they've never resisted me. Except when it finally mattered…"

"Tch. You're such a good friend," I say, tapping my hat straight. I don't know what's going on, but I think I've won. Time to go home and ring my farm bell.

"Hey, hey, Rio. You don't know much about me, do you? I don't like that. In comparison, _I_ know more about _you_."

My hands hover over the door handle. "Don't fool with me or Rod anymore," I say. "I own this town– and for better or worse– I own your business. If you don't like it, go back home to your mother and sister."

"Right. If I necessary, I'll go back home. But what about you, Rio?"

My arms lock up. "What are you saying?"

"Hmmm, I took the liberty of asking Dunhill about you," Allen says, strutting over and resting a hand on the counter. "You were always so vague about yourself. I couldn't help it… Oh, what did he say again? You ran away from home, if I recall rightly. How typical. I can imagine the rest. You were a spoiled teenage brat who wanted things her way. A girl who couldn't stand her parents discipline. So you told them off and now, after running around wild and making a fool of yourself, you're too ashamed to ever return home to them. Am I close?"

I hold my neck pensively at this. "I guess… that old man is capable of giving me some privacy…" I laugh in shaky relief. "Here. I forgot to pay you." I throw a drawstring bag of G on the counter. "Keep the change."

He jumps from the counter after me. "I don't keep change! And what am I wrong about? Tell me!"

I push the door open– and instead of hearing it jingle shut– I hear Allen shuffling out behind me. "You get back in here," he says. "I want an answer!"

"Thanks for the haircut."

"I want a real answer!"

Leaping up onto my black horse, I hold him tightly and squeeze his sides with my legs, jumping him from a trot into a canter. Riding for the mountains, I look back and catch Yuri, standing behind the salon's back window and watching me, an interested perkiness– or perhaps curiosity– in her bearing. It's hard to tell how long she's been there behind the salon, staring in through its back window where I once was with Allen– or what she's even thinking– but I'll be seeing her tomorrow. Maybe, I might even ask her what she saw.


	5. Chapter 5

Peeking through my window at seven sharp, Dunhill suggests I get dressed and stomps inside to inform me how (thanks to my recent yam crop) he's re-instating the town's Foliage Festival and that it will be held on the day before yesterday. The day before yesterday.

Finishing up with issuing his statement, Dunhill takes leave and I grab the sleeve of his shabby taupe duster coat. "Hold on," I say lowly, waiting for a coherent sentence to spill out of my mouth. Nothing happens. Instead, all the questions I wanted to ask are erased and I have no idea why I'm here.

"What? Did you need to ask about something?" Dunhill asks, a deep sense of understanding possessing him.

I did, didn't I? I wanted to ask him. Ask him about what Allen mentioned. Grinding up my speech and spitting out a quiet round of 'uhs' and 'errs', I take a deep breath and calm myself down. "Sorry… Was having a moment there."

Dunhill reaches into his coat pocket and yanks out a handkerchief, handing it to me.

What the? Did he think I was going to start crying or something? The only moment I was having was a senior moment. Well, my sinuses ARE draining, since I woke up only minutes ago, so I wrap the cloth around my nose and blow out a deluge of snot. "Thanks," I say, folding it up and handing it back.

Dunhill takes his soggy handkerchief back with no complaints. Such a gentleman.

"I was just curious," I say, crossing my arms anxiously. "About what you told Allen."

Dunhill tips his hat knowingly. "So he took that information to you, did he," he says. "Well, I only told him the simple truth. You ran away from home, and that's all. He was pressuring me about details, how, when, and why, but I didn't feel it was right. And I only know so much."

Weakened by apprehension, I sit down on my nearby table top, not bothering to pull out a chair. "About my mom and dad. You really know what happened to them, don't you? I read all the letters you sent them, and I saw the way you wrote to them– half-aware but not willing to admit it. You can't accept their deaths, can you?"

Facing away, Dunhill thrusts his hands into his coat pockets and fidgets. "The city they lived in… It was a big place. Even after being leveled to the ground like that, there were stories of people washing up elsewhere alive. There's still stories like that… Rio, is it so wrong to believe in your parents? Don't you cling to hope like that? Don't you think that in one way or another, they might be waiting? Watching?"

I chuckle; he is surprisingly naive for an old man. "For fourteen years, I clung to such hope– single-mindedly regretting the day I got lost. Working hard to find my way back…" Putting my foot up on a chair's back, I push and balance it on its rear legs. "And for what?" The chair threatens to tip over underneath. "For me to discover that the home in my memories was gone– along with the faces of the parents I'd selfishly forgotten… I've dreamed so long of the life I left behind and I've had countless delusions of going back in time and stopping my childish self. I've stored so much warmth and hope inside but what were those fluttery, effing little feelings worth? Nothing at all. How useless. Shameful! I'm done with it– no more guilt, no more hope." I twist my mouth vilely. "No more of those emotions dragging me down."

"Hope and guilt are two very different things. To run away from them is cowardly. To be confusing them as one means you're still but an immature child." Dunhill tips his hat solemnly at me. "Your parents would hate to hear you speak so coldly. I know, because I myself hate to hear it. Frankly, the horrible words coming out of your mouth make me sick. They'd feel the same too."

I kick the chair and it topples backwards. "So smug about everything just because you're old... What does it matter? They're gone! Do you think I still feel guilty about running away? About leaving them? I don't anymore! I was just a kid who didn't know any better! Because I did what I did, I got out of the city before the disaster. I outlived them!" Pushing off the table and stalking forward, I grab Dunhill by his shirt and wrench him around, not planning to do anything to him, but spurred on when I see the disdainful face he's making at me. "Sick or not, don't tell me what my parents would think of me. Don't even think for a moment you can go around telling me what to DO in their stead," I yell as he tries to scrape my hands away. Resisting, my hands forget their bounds and I lift him off the ground and slam him into the wall. "I thought I did, but I never needed them. It took me so long to figure it out–" My hands tear through his shirt like paper, ready to pull him apart next; "–I never needed them!"

Ripping himself free, Dunhill wobbles aside, catches himself, and puts all his weight into a powerful right hook. Connecting with my left cheek, it sends me back flying– my rear hitting the floor and my legs sprawling out from underneath me as I slide. With my arms flopping all around me like empty feed sacks, I scrape to a halt. Holding my sore face, I sit up silently– dumbfounded.

"I'm sorry. You're so much like your father," Dunhill says shakily, gripping his arm upon realizing what he's just done. "Bottling things up and saying the opposite of what you mean... Getting angry when you're depressed. Not stopping until you get hurt. When he got that way, you were terrified. That's what made you run away, isn't that it?"

"No… there's no single point of blame," I say slowly, coming to my knees, overwhelmed by the hideous tizzy I had thrown. "There was also me. And my mother." I squeeze my eyes shut– my cheek still twinging like pulverized steak. "The city was dangerous, and I a troublemaker, so she kept me locked up in the house. That house. I was never sure how to feel about. When she was happy, she filled it with her off-key singing. When she was upset, she filled it with demonic shrieks. Her and my father, tearing into each other and the walls, and sometimes me. I wanted to imagine it away. I believed the problems would disappear if I did. But problems follow you." I hunch over in overwhelming shame. "Don't tell me I'm a coward."

"Rio." Dunhill kneels beside me and grabs my face, pressing a frozen fish against it. "I hit you as hard as I hit your father on the day he left for the city with your mother…"

"What. You asshat," I say, still upset that he had the nerve to hit me, but mostly wondering what he's going on about. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because I knew. The city changes people. It brings out the worst. I wanted to make him understand that." He shakes his head shamefully. "But violence never solves anything, huh?"

"No, but sometimes it can beat some sense back in."

"It was wrong for me to hit you. Especially your face… After Dr. Klaus patches you up, I'll take a scolding from him for what I've done."

"I'm fine, stop getting all worked up! Nothing's broken, no need for a doctor."

"We should still go."

"Yeah, for you! I was battering you against the wall, old man. And nothing against your age, but I've survived harder punches."

"Unfortunately, I believe you." Dunhill stands, offering me his hand and helping me up. "It's a little unnerving how strong you turned out all by yourself."

"I had help along the way."

Fussing over me shortly, Dunhill urges me to see the doctor if I feel dizzy at all and he leaves, grasping his coat closed in order to hide his torn shirt underneath. For an old man, he's surprisingly progressive– not holding back with me and all. If I were a guy, I believe he would've come down just as hard. I pride myself in being tough, but, why do I hate it now?

Keeping the cold fish he gave me pressed against my face, I finish work, load up my bag with all the yarn and cloth I own, and walk into town, the unexpected rain drumming down on my hat.

I don't know how bad I look right now, but I'm still getting that skirt. I've got a love confession in the works for the weekend after all. Instead of thinking about the past, I need to make a future.

Passing the tourist-packed cafe, I reach the tailor's shop and hear voices rustling within. I stop to listen, and in a ridiculous coincidence, I identify the faintest voice as Yuri's, and the loudest as Allen's. This again. "What do you mean I have it backwards?" Allen demands.

Yuri's voice answers him, boyishly soft: "The box of letters… in her armoire… Whenever I delivered clothes there, I would read them… The way Dunhill wrote to them is interesting…"

"What? You read her personal letters… You're kidding, right? I'm stunned. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Sorry… I wanted to know more… Mother says to take more chances… to get to know people better."

"I don't think she quite meant it like _that_, but I'm not complaining. So tell me, how is my theory off? How can Rio NOT be a textbook case? She wanted to run wild and do whatever she wanted, right? Typical. How could it be any more complicated than that?"

"Her feelings were probably simpler, because she ran away… when she was only nine-years-old…"

"That's…" Allen pauses– as if to forcibly digest this bizarre truth. "No, you honestly can't expect me to believe that! Maybe if an adult had a hand in it, or maybe if she had been a few years older. But at that age? Sorry, but how does a nine-year-old know what she wants in life?"

"She doesn't," I say, pushing the door open and causing them to jump. Walking in, fish-to-face, I throw my over-filled bag on the counter and I stare ahead at the tailor. "Yuri, you're not working with _that_ person, are you?" I poke a thumb Allen's way.

Yuri stares at me intently and says, "I do all the drafting, cutting, and sewing myself…"

"Yeah, that's not what I meant."

"Excuse me," Allen asserts, "but you should refer to THIS person here by his name." He vainly tugs at his collar.

Leaning on the counter, I flip through the nearby clothing catalog. "Yuri, about the other day," I say. "Were you watching us through the salon window?"

"…Yes," Yuri admits.

"I hope you would've called for help if I'd been in danger."

"I wasn't worried… The scene was going along smoothly…"

"Wow. So let me get this straight," Allen interrupts; "You not only overheard me talking but you also _watched _me?"

Slightly abashed, Yuri stiffens up and stares at the wall. "What should I do? I'm in trouble…"

"Speak up! If you have something to say, say it loud and clear! Otherwise, don't say it at all," Allen scolds. "I'll let you off the hook this time, since I understand your insecurities. All the other guys in town are curious about my technique, too."

"Gaaaayyy," I blurt out.

Allen regards me critically. "Rio, what's with that fish on your face? You're starting to reek. It's like you're doing it on purpose now."

"It's the latest in beauty treatments ok." Perusing the middle of the clothing catalog, I almost drop the fish in shock. "THAT much red cloth? So much red down… Yuri, this is unreasonable." I slap a hand on the counter. "Think of the environmental impact! Do you understand how many parrots must die for this mini skirt?"

"You can make cloth from feathers… that fall off of birds safely…" Yuri speaks up.

"No. It's too much. I only have one bolt of red cloth. Cut the required number down by fifteen."

"I can't do that…"

"Do it and I'll give you the box full of letters."

"…Allen?" Yuri asks, gazing at him beseechingly. "Can you…?"

"What? You think I'm going to pay?" Allen scoffs. "I'll have no part in it. I can't believe she's trading those letters for a potshot at fixing herself up. And why? To seduce Rod? All she has to do is blink in his direction and he falls all over himself. No accounting for taste."

My face lights up. "Really?" I ask.

"Ugh," Allen groans. "Give it up. I'm not coughing up the fabric. Deal with it."

By now, the tailor's wide-open eyes have gone all watery and shiny. "… Please," Yuri implores, pulling at the back of Allen's jacket. "Dunhill's interesting letters… I want to… read them all…"

"Look at that, you heartless bastard," I say to Allen. "Look at Yuri, earnestly begging you like a cute little grandchild. How can you refuse that cherubic face? How can you be so goddamn stingy?"

"You're one to talk, pooch! I'm not the one pawning off garbage for goods," Allen quips. "I refuse already. So too bad! So long, kids." Turning around and actually looking at Yuri, he freezes up and starts sweating. "Come on… stop looking at me with those girlish eyes! You're creeping me out. Go on, move!"

"Letters…" Yuri repeats quietly.

"Oh man… Maybe I am a homo." He holds his forehead and trembles. "OK, fine. Fortunately for you, I've been receiving a lot of red cloth from the ladies lately. I don't need the clutter around so I'll graciously hand it over. In return, though, Yuri will summarize the entire collection of the letters to me. And clean my shop every Friday through Monday for a whole year."

"But you just said you'd graciously hand it over!" I growl.

"Don't complain, you're not the one getting the short end here."

"It's overkill!"

"It's fine… sounds fair," Yuri says. "Thank you… Allen."

"Don't thank this guy!" I point at him accusingly. "He's ripping you off! Your time is worth more! At least make him reduce it from a year to a season!"

Allen smirks. "My, is your conscience bothering you? Maybe you should think about how your dealings affect others next time," he says.

"Whatever!" I explode. "Take the letters whenever and do whatever you want! But just keep in mind, I need the outfit before this weekend."

"Why this weekend?"

"It's none of your business!"

Relinquishing the rest of the required clothing materials, I storm outside, instantly chilled by both the rainy weather and the cold fish squeezed tightly to my face. "Damn it, I know he hates me, but why does he have to be so mean to Yuri?" I mutter, splashing through every puddle on the path back to my farm. It's worrisome, but I know it's not my problem. It's not like I'm guilty of anything except being a good businesswoman.

Yuri really wanted those letters!

And I don't need them anymore.

Making it to the safety of my farm, I tuck away the fish and warm my numb and frozen hands in my pockets. Stopping under a tree to stare at my reflection in a sheltered puddle, I touch the fist-sized bruise on the left side of my hollow-eyed face and glower. It's incredible how horrible I look right now; not even my stylized hair can doctor-up my soulless appearance. I look like a ghost. A liche. An undead monster.

I am a monster. To think I just traded away the last memories of my parents for something unnecessary– and hopeless– just like what Allen said. And why? Because I think it will make someone love me more? Have I always been this stupid? Ha, there goes that whiny way of thinking again.

Emo. Angsty. Completely detestable. Self-hate, no self-worth, low self-esteem. Stuck, forever.

"You little shit," I say, looking down at myself, knowing I deserved the jab Dunhill gave me but too unbearably lame to stop feeling butthurt about it. "Always doing whatever you want– and then feeling bad about it later… What gives you the right, huh?" Running my knuckles across my bruise, my vision blurs and I rub at my face, the pungent smell of fish filling up my nose and an unexpected gurgle of ridiculous sobs lodging in the back of my throat. I feel so cold. And disgusting. Why am I always throwing away important things? I keep at it, too, never learning. I do it to myself. That's the worst part of all. This putrid smell, it suits me.

How do I manage to force all this swampy emotional crap into the back of my mind every day?

I was wanting to change. I just want a damn hug.

A puddle splashes loudly behind me and I fill with dread.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing out here?" a familiar voice nags. "Standing out in the rain like this… Are you trying to get sick? Think of all the people you'd burden if you did!"

Of course it's Neil, telling me how to run my farm life again. I don't argue with him, since what he's saying sounds right in line with my thoughts. "Yeah, I hear you," I say. "I'm going inside now." I step away.

Sensing that something's wrong, Neil does the exact opposite of a good idea and grabs my shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong with you? Your voice sounds stuffy and weird. Did you get yourself sick anyway?" He yanks me around.

Acting quickly, I pull off my hat and hide my screwed-up face behind it. "No, I'm fine. Just go home."

"Fine? You won't even look at me!" Grabbing my hat, he struggles to wrestle it away. "What is wrong with–" Getting a glimpse of my face, he gasps in horror. "What the hell happened to you? It's like someone hit you! Tell me who did this!"

"No one! It was just a cow," I say, feeling terrible for being such a natural liar. "A cow kicked me in the face. While I was milking her."

"A cow kicked you? What did you do, milk her from behind? Don't you know anything about animals? To make such a mistake… how can you call yourself a farmer?"

I smack his hand off. "Stop making such a big deal out of it."

"I-I'm not! If anyone's making a big deal out of it, it's you, with your crying over it and all!"

"I wasn't crying!"

"Your eyes are all puffy and red!"

Annoyed, I stride away.

"Get back here! We're going to the doctor!"

"Sod off!"

Despite my refusal to go anywhere but home, he catches up and grabs my wrist, yanking me back on my feet.

If he were Rod, I'd probably go wherever he wanted me to go. If he were Rod, I'd probably calm down and listen a little. But he's Neil, and I'm persnickety like that, so I throw myself down like a rebellious child being pulled along by a overwrought mother.

"You stupid cow!" Neil rages, embarrassed by his insufficient strength. "What if you have a broken jaw? What if you get a blood clot? I don't care about you personally or anything, but this farm will wither without you!"

"More like this town will!" I say, digging my feet into the mud and tugging forward, lugging him behind me. My goal is the house, whether he likes it or not. I'm going there and he can drag along.

"Stubborn bitch!" he yells at me, finding his footing and deadlocking us.

"Ignorant prick!" I scream back, throwing myself forward.

Grunting and cursing at each other for the next few minutes, Neil does the strategically unthinkable: he lets go, allowing me to fall ahead at full momentum. Plunging face first into the mud, my crammed bag bursts open and yarn, cloth, yams, eggs, milk and everything imaginable spills out all over the barnyard. I could care less about these objects. Their ultimate fate is and always will be the shipping bin. But the last thing with any real value to me has flipped out into the grime and inadvertently opened up. It is… the little white velvet ring box. Grabbing it up and clutching it close, my body goes limp at the realization of what has happened.

The ring slot is empty.

The ring, it's gone. Lost. Fell out. Not here. My eyes search the ground and my fingers crawl and scrape through the mud, a frantic wail threatening to rise up from my gut.

"Argh, what a waste!" Neil says, lamenting all the broken silkie chicken eggs lying about. "Don't stuff so much into such a tiny bag next time, okay?" He tries to help by picking up salvageable produce, even though it's pointless. Stepping up close behind me, he pauses and watches me scratch at the earth. "What are you doing?" he questions, confused. "Did you lose something? What are you digging around for?"

"R-ring," I garble shakily, raking dirt up into my fingernails as I focus on searching. "Where did it go? Where? It was the last men's ring like it… Where? Where?"

"You're not going to find it that way, especially in this weather. Come on. Get off the ground! Look at you. Why do you need that ring so badly anyway?"

"It was for ROD." I freak out and scratch at the earth, growling incoherently and having a totally uncool temper tantrum.

"Rod?" Neil huffs. "So in just a few days, you go from wanting to hide your true feelings from him… to wanting to confess? I don't get it. How stupid."

Standing up, I walk up to Neil and shove him, causing him to drop an armload of dirty eggs all over his boots.

"Wha, what did you do that for?" he asks, both dumbfounded and offended. "Are you trying to pick a fight? Huh?"

"Are YOU, HUH?" I yell, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him in hopes of jiggling his brain loose the rest of the way. "None of your concern, huh! Fancy whoever I want, huh!" I pick up an unbroken egg and smash it in his face, cracking the shell and smearing the goo from nose to chin.

He touches the yuck and twists his mouth up in fumbling rage. "OH, you did not just do that!" Thrusting his hands out, he shoves me down.

And tumbling upright, I dive for eggs and pitch them at him, yelling savagely as they splat against his fancy maroon bondage coat. Scrambling to dodge and run, he picks up a can of milk, uncaps it, and throws its contents all over me.

"ARGH," I yell as if I've been doused in acid. "You fetish wear reject! You wannabe rockstar!"

"Shut up you crazy demon woman!"

Since I hit a nerve, I don't stop: "Go back to the BDSM catalog from which you crawled!"

"You are INCONCEIVABLE, I will hurt you!" Completely livid, he tackles me to the ground and we roll.

Rain, eggs, milk, and mud blend together into a venomous batter as we wrestle and tear into each other– screaming and yelling– getting up and falling down– swinging and kicking– and trying to assault each other with the numerous fallen objects lying about. Latching onto Neil and garroting him with a ball of yarn, the both of us trip and fall over the pasture fence, our bodies crash landing on the soggy grass below. Staying on top, my thighs straddle his waist and my hands remain firm and unfaltering in their effort to floss his neck off.

Taking my mud-splattered wrists in hand, Neil holds onto them and squeezes lightly– the heat from his palms spreading throughout my arms and bewildering me enough into dropping the string.

I must've been under a trance or spell this whole time, because when I glance down at his face, I no longer see the expressionless, bed-headed man I wish to strangle or decapitate (whichever comes first), I see a drowned, slick-haired boy with a pained and feverish expression.

There is something definitely wrong with him.

"Is Rod really the guy," Neil asks with a great deal of exertion, "who you… Is he… want…"

"H-hey," I say, dismounting him. "What's going on with you? You losing your mind already?" Placing my filthy hand on his forehead, I jump when I feel how hot he is. "You're burning up! You're sick!"

"D-don't take me–" he mutters with the last of his strength, "–to the doctor… he's a. Scary man." He closes his eyes.

I panic.

"H-hey! You effing hypocrite! You can't die here!" I try slapping him awake. "I just decided, I don't want your freaky ghost haunting my farm! Oh man. Go die somewhere else. You can't die so easily, what am I even saying, this is all my fault!" Scooping him up, I stumble over yams and run him into my house, where I thoughtlessly track crud all over the floor while I bridal carry him around my dining room and freak out so bad I almost cry.

If Neil dies, I should throw his body into the river. If he lives, maybe I should still throw his body into the river, because he's covered in egg and whatnot and I don't want that shit in my house. Setting him on the floor, I decide to strip off his filthy wet clothes and boots and then transplant him into my bed. Bundling him up with my covers like he's a stinking baby, I give him the angriest death frown I can muster.

"Showing up and nagging me about getting sick," I spit in hatred, "and then this. This absurd situation. What a dumbass! What a dumbass." I pace back and forth. "I should get him some help. Wait, no– I should clean up first. Make it presentable." Running a bundle of Neil's clothes into the bathroom, I get down on all fours, push a towel along the floor, and then quickly change without bathing. Dashing outside and scurrying into town– out of breath– I hunt down the closest person I see.

"Iroha!" I yell, noticing the girl wandering about in the downpour. "Iroha, Iroha." I repeat, bounding after her.

Hearing my voice, she spins around and regards me, taken by surprise.

* * *

**I apologize for this chapter not showing up. Server glitch.  
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	6. Chapter 6

Standing beneath the dull sky and pouring rain, Iroha and I face one another. "Is anything the matter?" she asks, startled by the way in which I had called out to her.

"Neil is– he collapsed on my farm," I babble, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. "Help, help. HELP ME." I tug her along.

"Help?" she asks and follows, unsure of what this entails. "Shouldn't I fetch the doctor then?"

"No, you'll do!"

Leading her back to my farm and right through the remnants of a battlefield at its center, I watch her balk at the sight of the wasted goods and produce lying about.

"Neil and I– we had a small fight," I explain quietly, figuring she deserved some sort of explanation.

"That's very surprising, considering you two are such quiet people. But it would explain a few… things," she says worriedly, traipsing around a pile of muddy yarn and following me into my house. Stopping beside my dining table, almost mortified by the sight of Neil in bed, she goes over and touches his forehead, lifting the quilts and then dropping them as soon as she sees he's naked underneath. A restrained blush takes over her face.

"What do I do?" I ask her at last. "I mean. What do we do?"

"Well… His face and hands are covered in dirt, so I guess we should give him a sponge bath first of all," she manages to say seriously. "Then we should attempt to wake him up and feed him some miso soup. And maybe convince him to put some clothes on."

"Yes, this sounds like a plan," I agree. I place great faith in Iroha's sensibilities.

Iroha stares at me with her warrior-like air of dignity. "I don't know my way around here, so please assist me. I'll need a warm soapy washcloth and a few other things prepared, then you'll have to start the soup on your own."

Obeying Iroha, I bring her soap, towels, and a wash basin– and then I set to work in the kitchen. When we finish up our tasks, we gather beside the newly sponged Neil and stare at him uncomfortably.

"This is not the nude dude I wanted in my bed," I admit at last.

Iroha blushes uneasily. "I wasn't aware that you and Neil were this close," she says. "To fight so freely and then end up like this… with him lying there unconscious while a big bruise swells up on your face. I never knew this side existed with you two."

Remembering my bruise, I touch it wearily. "This was–" I pause, "–it wasn't from him. It was from a cow. Arguably, it's what started our whole fight. But don't get us wrong." I frown immensely at what she'd just suggested. "Neil and I are business partners at least and enemies at most. We'll never be close."

"Still, there's that old saying about love and hate…"

I stand aside and take a moment to really get a good look at Iroha– in her harem hakama hammer pants and kick ass embroidered breastplate. Squinting my eyes, I spill a great idea her way: "You want him?"

Blood rushes to her cheeks and she chokes on air itself. "D-don't say such things!"

Pulling the bed quilts back– as if unveiling a shiny new toy– I expose Neil's abs. "Didn't you like what you saw? He's a bachelor you know. He likes to play guitar and animals are his weakness. Next time he needs to be sponged clean, lean over him and whisper in his ear–"

"–I don't understand you!" Iroha bursts, furiously red.

"No. But that line also sounds kinda kinky."

Iroha gets as mad as is possible for her– which admittedly isn't too mad– but it's Iroha so it's pretty bad. Hell, I don't know. "You! You remind me of the grandmas in my village, forever brazenly encouraging me to amuse myself with a man!" she declares; "It was bad enough that my father always wanted to marry me off to random men, but this! I'm sorry to say this, but I always thought you of all people would understand a young woman's desire to be independent!"

"Attraction, it happens," I say. "Denying it all the time is called repression. And that's for bad people ok. Look." I billow Neil's blankets. "He's unconscious. Now's your chance to have your way with him!" I raise a determined fist.

Iroha shakes her head disapprovingly and walks off.

"WAIT. Don't leave," I cry, diving to my knees latching onto her waist. "Please don't leave me alone with this thing in my bed." I whisper: "_Help me_."

"And you wish me to 'have my way' with this 'thing'? No, I'm leaving."

Running in front of her and getting down on all fours, I bow as low to the ground as possible, since she herself once told me how this was how one apologized for huge screw-ups in her country. "I'll say no more of the other matter. Please graciously listen to my selfish request," I say, groveling like an insect. "Please help me tend to Neil's half-dead body and avert a scandal."

I guess Neil's not the only one who can squeeze this kinda humility from me.

"Alright, fine!" Iroha blurts, embarrassed. "Please get up, Rio. You're an important figure in this town, discarding one's honor so easily is quite the thing to do."

"I'll do what I must," I say, still bowing at her, almost in worship. "Thank you, thank you." I rise to my feet.

And so we wake Neil up long enough (by shaking him) to pour some miso soup down his throat and wipe his chin clean. Then we dress him in the men's cowboy outfit I ordered for myself awhile back for shits and giggles. I'm amazed it fits him so well– though maybe not. He IS slightly shorter than me. No wonder he's so quick to bite your kneecap off. He must have a shorty complex or something.

As I watch Iroha tend to Neil and tuck him back in, I realize she has a understated nurturing and almost motherly side to her. I kind of want to tell her she'd make a good wife someday, but I know I promised to say no more.

We have some miso soup as well, then we take turns bathing, and when I get out blankets for us to camp on, we decide to push them all under the table and pretend it's a girls-only fort to separate us from Neil. I'm a bit surprised that Iroha is capable of being as childish as I am, but I always suspected she was as awesome. Drifting off to sleep, I listen to her tell me tales about her hometown.

"And in the spring, all the young girls and their favorite dolls would dress in embroidered robes with fabric made from seven-colored silk, like the Goddess's," Iroha tells me, painting a picture with her calm voice. "But I never had a favorite doll, so my mother made a silk wrap for my hammer instead. Ah, I miss my mother…"

And this makes me fall completely asleep.

Rolling in my blankets the next morning, slightly cold and achy from the lack of both a mattress or pillow, I am rudely awakened by Allen's loud and pompous voice. "There she is," he says.

And then I feel hands on my ankles and I am dragged out from under the table– flinching to cover my bruise with my hand. "What's the meaning of this?" I gasp, confused when I see Allen standing over me. "Who the hell do you think you are, breaking in here like this?" I jab a finger in his face.

He brushes it aside. "Me? I'm the one who's come to take your letters, obviously," he says. "You know, the ones you traded away for some fabric? I'm here to help lift the whole box and carry it off, since I don't think Yuri can do it alone." He motions to Yuri behind him, who's fiddling around in my armoire. The outfit I ordered is hanging up on the door and it's definitely more than I anticipated. It even came with new shoes.

But for now, I'm amazed that Allen offered to help Yuri, since I thought he was bent on turning the poor child into a slave. "Good to see you helping out. At least you're an inkling of a gentleman," I tell Allen, sitting up and hiding the bad side of my face.

"And at least you're an inkling of a woman, pooch. Tell me, why is Neil in your bed? And is that…" He stops and blinks rapidly, almost as if he can't tolerate the sheer inanity he emits in my presence. "Is that Iroha sleeping under there with you?"

Sluggish and sleepy-eyed, Iroha drags herself out from under the table as well. "Good morning… Oh. Is everyone here?" she asks, pulling her lopsided topknot straight and glancing about.

Allen puts his hands on his hips and smirks sillily. "Goodness, Rio. You never cease to surprise me. What went on over here last night?"

"A girl's sleepover, duh," I say, standing up. What, did he think we had some kinda insane farm orgy?

"And Neil?"

"Yeah, don't ask." I turn and silently wave at Yuri. She silently waves back. Yes, that's how we greet each other.

Standing up, Iroha nods to both of them and goes over to Neil to feel his forehead. We all watch her curiously. "He collapsed here yesterday, but it seems his fever has gone down," she explains, her dark eyes gleaming. "Someone should take him home to rest."

"I'm busy," Allen states, even though he hasn't done anything yet.

Stepping alongside Iroha, I look down at Neil. "You've done so much, I can't ask you to do anything more," I say to her; "I'll do it."

Wise and quiet Yuri finally speaks: "Why don't you just… wake him up?"

"Good idea," I say, leaning over Neil's face. "Wake up." I backhand him.

Allen laughs. "You're such a terrible person," he says– even though he's one, too.

The front door opens and we all stop to look. Of all people to walk in, in walks Rod, making me glad for once that everybody woke me up early just for the sake of piling into my house– considering how questionable this situation would've looked had I been on my lonesome... If you really think about it. But there's no more time for thinking. It's been days since I've seen Rod up close, so I go all misty eyed and stupid upon seeing his shining, orange puffer-vested visage. How can one man be so damn fine? It's like his existence was spun from pure gold and the blinding sun. It's like my deepest inhibitions have vanquished so now I want to abuse another language with idiotic abandon. My kawaii future husbando. I want to write poetry. I want to do a lot of things. I want to hit that.

"You're drooling," Allen alerts me– loudly.

"Hey, it looks like everybody's here!" Rod blurts cheerfully. "I, uh, was looking for Neil. He wasn't at home last night so I was a little bit worried. Have any of you seen him?"

Allen points my way. "Yes. Neil is right here, _sleeping_ in Rio's _bed_," he says, accenting the 'sleeping' and 'bed' parts deliberately. I want to try to murdering him, too.

"Eh… oh," Rod emits, his voice cracking slightly.

"He collapsed from a fever yesterday," Iroha adds before I can stutter out an excuse.

"Yes," I agree with her immediately. "But he's fine now so I want him removed from my property."

"But you think _everything_ is your property," Allen quips. I pretend his voice is too quiet to hear (as impossible as that is).

"Fever?" Rod asks, now genuinely worried. "I had no idea. That would explain why Neil's been out-of-it all week." He slinks down at stares at his feet. "I can't believe I didn't notice it. Some friend I am…"

Stricken by Rod's instant change of mood, I hurry over and latch onto his shoulders. "But you've been out looking for him, right?" I say encouragingly: "That makes you a great friend. Especially if you've been out looking all night."

"Actually." Rod scratches his face ruefully. "It was raining yesterday, so I didn't start looking for him until this morning…" His posture deteriorates for a second and I panic.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, your leg is still injured!"

"I feel all better now, Rio, but what's with that bruise on your cheek?" He lightly touches my chin and my face lights up.

"Eh-uh, cow," I sputter senselessly, leaning into his warm hand and half-closing my eyes. I tone down a sigh of pleasure, but I think everyone in the room still hears it.

"AHEM," Allen clears his throat. "Rod, your good friend Neil is still sick here. And he needs to be taken home. Let's go." He then turns to Iroha. "Oh, and would you please help Yuri with that box over there? In the armoire. Thanks, I appreciate it," he says to her, then stomping over to the bed and struggling to lift up Neil.

"R-right," Rod answers, shyly staring into my eyes for a moment and pulling away.

Long after everyone has said their goodbyes and vacated the premises, I'm still standing in the dining room, holding my chin (in the same spot where he had) and listening to the noise of my heart racing in my chest. I know it's love, but I still can't say I've ever felt this way before.

"Why is he so different?" I ask myself aloud, bending over and yanking the blankets out from under my table. I fold them back up, since they don't need to be washed, but I strip everything off my now filth-stained bed.

I almost finish up cleaning, but then I remember how Neil's dirty clothes are still wadded up in my bathroom. Just to be a decent human, I should probably wash them and return them to him sometime. Maybe soon.

Picking up his maroon bondage coat, I examine its leather details and discern that the whole thing would likely get ruined if I tried washing it. Yes, this strappy thing needs to be cleaned by a professional. "What a pain," I say, carefully taking a damp cloth to its mud and egg stains while carrying it to the door. "I should at least hang it up to dry." I stare at it some more.

I know I made fun of Neil because of it, but secretly, I actually find this coat kinda cool. What the hell. I slip it on just for fun and it actually fits. Not surprising. Neil has the stature of a young woman after all. I should tell him that some day.

Strutting around in his coat, I tuck my hands into the pockets and mimic his way of standing– with heels turned in and far apart. "Buy something, will ya?" I growl lowly. A boring imitation, I know. But I'm just not feeling it. Maybe it's because acting like Neil isn't terribly new or exciting. I'd much rather be someone else. I'd much rather be a cheerful person who's easy to love and hard to hate– someone totally unlike me.

Maybe that's why Rod's so different.

Exhaling deeply, I tuck my hands deeper into the pockets and my finger brushes against something cold and small. "What the... Ice?" I murmur, digging the object out. It's a commitment ring. THE commitment ring which I'd picked out for Rod and previously thought I'd lost forever. I am extra certain of it because there's dirt wedged into the band's crevices. "That son of a…" I'm both angry and relieved. Both delighted and annoyed. Neil must've found it when he was picking up eggs before our fight. Stupid Neil. Bless his soul.

Grinning in spite of myself, I clean the ring off and put it safely into storage. I'll be more careful with it for now on, that's for certain.

Scrubbing my laundry in the river and hanging it up to dry, I finish my farm work and clean up in the bath. To my surprise, I discover that the bruise I got from Dunhill's clobbering faded and went down in size. "I guess that frozen fish must've helped," I say to myself, drying off and eying the new outfit hanging up in my armoire. The box full of letters which used to be sitting below its spot is gone, but it doesn't matter. Their words are still taking up space in my head, even though I don't want them to.

I'm letting go, am I not?

Just to see how I look, I try on the complete outfit Yuri delivered, hiking up its black stockings and red checkered skirt. There's more than enough buttons on its matching frilly high-neck blouse, so I slip on its accompanying white cardigan and leave it unbuttoned. I even try on the matching red leather mary janes.

Rod will find these clothes cute, won't he?

I pull them off carefully and jump into my overalls. There's no time to stand around and contemplate these things. I have work to do. Mainly, I have a hedge maze to build.

So I work late into the night, destroying trees and creating hedges, walls, and columns– precisely setting them up on the lowest terrace part of my farm. I also build the watch tower Dunhill put into our town renovation plan awhile back– and I set it up on the tallest and furthest hill in town– the hill where I moved Neil's house. Tomorrow, I'll tell Neil about his newfound duties. And maybe return his clothes to him (if they're dry by then).

Night ends and morning proceeds in a blink. Lifting myself out of bed, I bring in the laundry and tend the animals. I spritz the bees. I whack the grass. I harvest the produce. This is what it means to be a farmer, and I'm ok with that.

And so comes my least anticipated part of the day. Gathering up Neil's clothes, I stuff them into my bag and head into town. I find him at his outdoor shop in the distance, back in business and somehow wearing the same exact outfit I'm returning to him, and this frankly bothers me.

"What is he doing, holding shop today? No one recovers that fast," I say to myself, unwilling to return his clothes in front of Rod up there at the square. So instead, I head into the other side of town and mow down some trees in preparation of the exotic mansion I'm gonna build there. When dinnertime arrives, I head up to Neil's house.

He has to be home, because even _he's_ gotta eat.

I knock on his door and he grumpily yells at me. So I barge right in. "Evening," I say, tugging my bag close.

Neil glares up at me from where he's sitting, right at his dinner table. "What do you want?" he snaps, a fork in his hand.

"I'm here to return your clothes." I take them out and present them.

He huffs loudly and focuses on his food instead. "I can't take them right now." He waves a hand at me dismissively. "Can't you see I'm eating?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." I drop them on the floor. "Is that better?"

He shoves his plate aside and faces me. "Alright, you fool! I've had it up to here with you. Who put me in that stupid cowboy outfit yesterday?" he demands. "Was that you?!"

I chortle into my hand.

"You're the worst! I can't believe it… You didn't–" He stops and his angry face goes all red. "You didn't look. Or see. Anything… did you?"

I give him a long hard stare. "If I didn't need to see shit," I explain incredulously, "I'd keep my eyes closed all the time."

"That's not what I'm getting at!" His face retains its redness and I start to understand what he means.

"What?" I ask, still in disbelief. "Are you honestly getting angry about THAT? A man shouldn't get so upset."

"You pervert!" he explodes, standing up. "You looked at me on purpose, didn't you?!"

"Excuse me. But what kind of idiot ARE you?" I explode right back. "Of course not! Why would I WANT to look at you?"

"Because you're a perverted girl who dreams about perverted things!"

"I cannot believe you!" I cry out. "Don't get so full of yourself, I felt nothing! You're not even much to look at, OK? And that dream you overheard the other day? Don't say you've never had one, you judgmental jerk-off!"

Neil goes silent, and for a moment, he almost looks kinda hurt. "Whatever. Take your stupid clothes back." He waves his hand towards his shelf. "It's in there."

I retrieve my cowboy outfit and turn around to find him rummaging though his dirty old coat's pocket. "Did you get the thing?" he asks quietly. "The thing that was in here?"

"Yeah," I answer. I know he means the commitment ring.

He drags the coat over to his chair and sits back down. "You know, I thought about it…" he says all of a sudden: "About you and Rod. You were the first ones to really look me in the eye. I think… you two should be happy together. I mean– not that I care. I don't care, understand? Get out of my sight."

"Hn," I grunt in agreement. "Right. Thanks."

"Yeah." He coughs into his collar. "Night."

"G'night." I close myself outside.

In all that batshit awkwardness, I forgot to tell him about his new job to man the lookout tower.


	7. Chapter 7

Opening my door that next morning, a flash goes off in my face, and when I can see again, I see Tina– hands hidden behind her back– and staring up at me in one of those coy girlish flirt poses.

"Good morning!" she cries, hobbling and jigging in place, much like a sparrow or a little kid who's trying to quell her bladder. "Your fields are looking really nice today. Really fresh!"

I stare at her. "Did you just take a photo of me?" I ask.

She ignores me in favor of energetically flapping her arms. "Yuri told me there was a scoop here! I mean, not literally, but she told me a really interesting tidbit. So, I innately sensed there was a scoop here." Gazing upwards, she holds a finger to her forehead and feigns deep thought. "Hmm. And guess who that scoop is, mh?"

I close the door on her.

"Riooooo–" Tina's high voice penetrates it, her tiny hands attempting to pummel their way in.

I flatten myself against the door, holding the knob tightly and hoping it all comes to an end very soon. And so it does.

Silence. A minute passes and I can no longer sense her outside. Did she leave? I relax my stance and think about letting go of the knob, but then– out from the thick quiet– a scraping noise fills my lonely home with a disturbing presence.

"What the–" I mutter, jolting when I see my kitchen window sliding open and two arms hanging over– waving– trying to swim their way in. I let out an incredible yell and fall on my butt, babbling in terror until Tina pulls herself through and tumbles right into my kitchen.

"Hm-hm!" she twitters, standing up and flexing. "Your doors, walls, and solid objects are no match against me, Tina, journalist extraordinaire!" She points at me mightily. "Prepare to relinquish the scoop! I want an interview with you, right here and right now." She crosses her arms, glowering down at me. "And don't you dare treat me like an annoying little sibling again. It feels bad when the table is turned on me like that…"

I lean on my hands and knees in defeat, knowingly very well that this would never end if I failed to relent. "Yes," I mutter.

"Good!" she cheers. "But first, breakfast. Mind if I use your kitchen? What would you like me to make you?" Before I can answer and tell her I'm not hungry, she drags me over to my dining table and forces me to sit down. "Excellent! One order of omelet rice, coming right up!" She hurries off to dig around in my fridge, oohing and cooing at the extensive selection.

"Don't touch my five-star rice," I warn her.

"Oh! This is wonderful! Such high-quality ingredients, as expected of Echo Farm," she exclaims, loading up her arms and attacking the stovetop. "I really wish I had a portal to your fridge from my house, just so I could help myself like this all the time. Oh, but I wouldn't pig out of course. If I pitch the idea to Michelle, maybe she can make a magical one? I think Felicity would love it, too."

"No way," I say, troubled by this. "Don't go helping yourself whenever you feel."

"Omelet rice!" Tina plunks the steaming plate down in front of me, obviously ignoring my every word. "My specialty!" she says. "Dig in while it's still nice and warm."

Jabbing a fork at it, I take a bite, finding the fried ketchupy rice and egg comfortingly appetizing.

"How is it? Pretty delicious, right?" Tina asks, her big eyes seeking approval. "I'm a pretty good cook, you know."

I put my fork down and wipe my face on my neck scarf. "Yeah, but somehow," I say, "I can see this being the only thing you know how to cook."

"Rio!" Tina yells, crossing her arms. "That's so rude! I come from a big family so of course I know how to cook like a boss. You should be telling me how I'll make a good wife and mother someday."

"Heh. It takes more than good food to make a good mother," I say, taking another bite and feeling a bit remorseful for what I said. "Sorry… It's delicious. You did good."

Tina sits down before me and rests her cheeks in her hands, watching me solemnly. "To run away when you were just nine-years-old," she murmurs. "What made you do it?"

"I don't know. The same thing that makes any child run away. Foolishness."

"And how did you run away?" Tina pulls out a pen and notepad, laying it in clear view before us. "Tell me your whole life story, from how you ran away from home, up to point when you acquired the box of letters and settled here in Echo Town." She starts writing, even though I've barely said anything yet.

This is a ridiculous request– I want to tell her this fact but I know she'd demand the reasons; the reasons being my story is so bizarre and convoluted, it would be impossible to tell it in it's entirety– especially in one day– especially if she's planning to publish it for others to see. "What are you going to do with this interview?" I ask her, apprehensively jabbing my fork at the omelet rice.

"Quote you in an article on runaways, a feature I'm doing for a city paper since it's a pretty common problem these days. Maybe I'll even do a feature about you for the local Echo Town paper," she says, laughing into her fingers, "since everyone's been gossiping about your origins for ages."

"Forgo publishing anything about me until I'm dead," I say.

"No way! No way. Quit kidding around!" She laughs some more. "I'll be a forgetful old granny by then. I mean, I'm already kinda forgetful."

I actually smile. "Only because you try to remember so much."

"I remember squat! That's why I write everything down and file it. Now then." She leans in closer. "Back to business. Go on."

I take a big bite of food and spend a prolonged moment chewing it. "On the day I ran away– my parents and I– we were supposed to go on an outing to the city wharf," I say, swallowing my food. "So I did what any little girl would do, I put on my best outfit; a red sailor dress and a fluffy white coat. I felt so sharp, waiting for my parents to get ready. I had been looking forward to that outing all month; of course my parents decided to start fighting.

"My mom was the sort of woman who put a deadbolt on everything, but she threw a chair right through the front window and broke it. Intent on going, I climbed out and hopped on a bus."

Tina scratches away at her notepad. "It almost sounds like you made a spontaneous decision, but, were you planning on running away?" she asks professionally, which makes me oddly uncomfortable.

"Probably." I consider. "I would always daydream about going on a big journey, but I wasn't thinking about it at that moment. I only wanted to see the wharf– the boats, the shops, and the amusement park. It sounded better than it was. When I got there, I had no more money to do anything and all the bright lights and sounds only left me feeling deeply ashamed and unsatisfied inside. With these feelings, I jumped into the water and swam out to the biggest boat."

"You became a stowaway?"

"I should've. I would've been caught for sure. But I was a determined little monkey. I climbed up its big anchor chain and hung on. Most of it was reeled in when the boat took off, but there was just enough length to dangle from. I hung on and ended up hundreds of miles away."

As if giving up, Tina puts her pen down and takes a moment to massage her forehead in hostile disbelief. "Is this a joke?" she asks.

"Tch. Wouldn't that be nice." I cram the last forkful of food in my mouth and chew, bitterly pensive. "If you don't accept, don't ask."

"Never mind what I think! How does a little girl have enough strength to survive?" Tina slaps the table. "Just how long did you hang onto that chain?"

"I lost track of time, but days? The chain was big enough to sit inside of so when I got tired, I fastened myself in with my dress ties. I ate the fruit I packed before I left. My fluffy coat kept me warm. Most of all, my fear kept me alert, even when I slept. But you're right, a little girl can only do so much. When the anchor dropped I went with it. And so. I hit my head and died. The end."

Tina merely comments with a small, inward mewl– a sound so nondescript, I'm unsure of what it even effing means. It's practically a grunt. She isn't listening, is she.

"W-wait," Tina says, finally coming to. "You didn't die!"

"No, but I should've," I say, excusing my retarded narration. "Washing ashore, I was found and nursed back to health by a woodsman– a master carpenter. He was a frighteningly large and hairy man, but kind and very lonely. He once had a wife and daughter, but they were killed and eaten by wild dogs in the mountains." I cringe, still remembering the vivid description of their bitten and torn remains; it was quite a local legend. "To prevent such a thing from happening again, he taught me how to use tools and encouraged me to become a strong carpenter. Together, we expanded his business and young men flocked in from town to sign-up as his apprentices." At this point, I pause, because this is the part where I decide to leave out ALL the details.

"Young men flocked in, hm?" Tina asks, catching on. "How old were you by then?"

"I was seventeen. I had already lived with the carpenter for eight years."

"I see." Tina goes back to scribbling on her notepad– hurriedly now, since she had fallen behind. "And just how were those young men who joined you, hm?"

Pushing my plate away, I lean back in my chair and cross my arms and legs. "Frankly, they were idiots," I say. "They destroyed the atmosphere of my home and made me realize it was time to go out and find my real one. The old carpenter understood and sent me off. I couldn't remember the city where I came from, so I traveled the world looking for it."

"And you found it?"

"I did. I found the city– my home– because of what had happened there. Four years after I first ran away, a typhoon overflowed the bordering river and an earthquake hit at the same time. A tsunami swept away the rest. What rotten luck. Seemingly overnight, the metropolis became a makeshift village built on ruins."

"Rio Solanum," Tina blurts, knowing exactly the place I was talking about, "you were named after the city…"

"A city which no longer exists," I add. "The new mayor there, he's a concerned and upstanding man. Over the years, he had carefully collected and categorized anything that could link families back together. Dunhill's letters– all of them sent to my parent's dead address– were among the curiosities kept and stored by him due to their nature." I tug at my hat. "Dunhill had hand-written them a letter every week for over a decade."

Holding her forehead, Tina frowns. "He still does," she says softly. "He asks me to take them to town for him… So that's what those are."

Standing up, I shove my chair in. "I'm sure you know the rest. I wrote him back and he gave me the farm." I go and hold the door open, beckoning her to leave.

"Wait, what about your parents?" Tina stands up after me, her hands clutching her notepad tightly against her chest.

"Who knows." I add, "But I'm sure they're gone. We're all gonna be gone– _one day._"

"Eh… huh?"

"Bye."

I watch Tina hesitantly leave down the dirt path before I close the door and stomp into the kitchen. Digging some lotus roots and such out of the fridge, I think about the master carpenter– the man who'd raised me for roughly half my childhood– and wonder if he ever got the letter I sent him last year. The heavy vegetable cleaver in my hand relentlessly hacks away at the fleshy roots and the oiled pan sizzles as I drop the battered roots in. One letter is enough. I don't want to keep sending letters. I don't want to become another Dunhill.

About two hours before dinnertime, I track Iroha down in town and present her with the deep-fried lotus roots as thanks for all her help the other day. Stopping by the market square to get a glimpse of Rod along the way, I hide behind a tree and watch.

Surrounded by a group of two children and their parents, Rod reaches into the animal pen and pulls out a convulsing, tongue-lolling puppy and carefully allows them to pet and hug it.

It's amazing how Rod once shared my fear of dogs. It's even more impressive how he faces it every day with a sort of tolerance built on love and eager understanding. I still can't believe I underestimated him like I did in the past– especially since I can see myself embraced by his infinite patience forever.

He's such a nice guy. I never knew it, but I quite love nice guys. Good thing it only took me half a lifetime of dealing with assholes to figure it out. I like everything about Rod– really I do– but still. I just wish he wouldn't cuddle those puppies so much, it kinda bothers me. I want to see him holding a kitten. A kitten is more relatable. Besides, I don't like how dogs leave their scent on everything– especially him.

"What's wrong, Pooch?" a voice asks over my shoulder; "You jealous?"

Ripping myself from the tree, I go about and walk down the road, trying to lose Allen who's now trying to pick a fight with me.

He follows, making me wonder if he's actually suicidal. "Here doggie doggie," he calls. clicking his tongue; "Doggie doggie doggie, Dog girl. Woof!" This finally gets me to turn around and snap.

"OK, I'm gonna have to hurt you," I say, briskly unlacing my right cuff and rolling it up.

"Oh. But you already have," Allen croons, holding his hands over his heart. "More deeply than you'll ever know."

I sputter in disgust. "Tch– so uncool!"

"She's quite a yappy little thing." He comes over and pats my hat. "You know, whenever I see a poodle, I feel inclined to shave her bald. Good girl."

"God damnit Allen." I face him. "You win! You win." I throw my arms up. "You got the last word. I can't stand you. Congratulations."

"Do I get a prize?"

"Yes Allen. Yes. You get a prize." I dig through my bag and pull out a branch. "Here." I bestow him the useless object, a sign of my (nonexistent) appreciation.

He actually looks pleased. "Received, with thanks." He smirks affectedly, twirling the branch in hand. "Wow, this brings back memories. When I first moved out here to the sticks, you'd fetch me such gifts regularly."

"Yeah," I admit. "As a boon to keep you from escaping."

"And it worked, Rio. I always looked forward to your visits. It's a shame we didn't remain good friends." He sighs exaggeratedly– making me wonder if he's mocking me again. "It all went down hill after that time I took you out for tea, didn't it? I always regretted being so rude to you. But I was hurt that you barely touched anything. And you had the nerve to bark at me."

I tug at my hat brim, vaguely recalling what went on that day. "Oh yeah," I say, the details miraculously coming back. "I drank myself pukeless the night before and my stomach felt like an inside-out punching bag. I went to the river in search of electrolytes. You dragged me to the restaurant instead. I went ballistic when you tried to force-feed me a grape tart."

"Good times, good times," he says wistfully. "Wait. You had a hangover? I don't remember you saying anything about it."

"Yeah, I was kinda ashamed of myself."

"Hah hah, you party animal. Apologetic drunks are hilarious. Are you an apologetic drunk?"

"Allen, I will throw your house off a cliff with you in it."

"Hey hey, remember that time we talked by the river? I told you to ask me about myself as cutely as you could. You started calling me onii-chan in a disgusting voice. I laughed until I cried. Then we never hung out again."

For old time's sake, I coo in said voice: "Uguuu."

He laughs so hard he smacks his lenses and has to take them off and clean them. "I don't understand. What happened to us?"

We take the road back towards town, our feet stomping down the dirt in unison. "Ah I don't know. You started being an asshole."

"Rio, I thought you got male psychology. That's called 'ribbing'. Guys do it when they're comfortable with one another."

"Gaaaay."

"Come on, show some class. Don't you understand what I'm saying?" He crooks his elbow around my shoulders. "After all this time, I've finally figured out our dynamics." He points between me and him. "I see you as a bro. A compadre. A buddy. Let's quit the misunderstandings. Let's be friends again."

I'm seconds from telling Allen he's full of shit, but when I see the steadiness of his beady blue eyes, I'm convinced. "Against my better judgement," I say, pausing to think; "OK."

He smiles in spite of my reluctance. "Great. So we're pals again."

I rub my arm, still unsure of my decision. "Does this mean you'll stop calling me dog-names, then?" I ask.

"Not a chance, pooch."

"I think I change my mind." I break free and run ahead.

"Get back here and take that back!" he yells.

"Up yours, four-eyes!"

Running back towards my farm, I stop in the middle of the road to laugh and grin. It's incredible, in just in a little while, everything has fixed itself. I got the ring back and now Rod's best friend doesn't hate me anymore. It's like I can do anything. Jumping up into the air, I click my heels together. Screw that, I CAN do anything.

Only one thing left to do.

Waiting until dinnertime to haunt the perimeter of Rod's house, I arrive at his front door and knock, listening so closely, I forget to breathe.

"Come on in!" Rod bursts eagerly, even though he has no idea who it is.

Letting myself in, I pull the latch shut behind me and stay in the doorway, so nervous I can barely look at him straight. "Hey," I say offhandedly. "Evening."

Rod springs from his chair in such haste, it scoots out from underneath him. "Rio!" he says, crashing his silverware on his plate. "He– hello! I was just having dinner. Would you–" he moves for his kitchen cabinet, ready to pull out a cup, "–would you like something to drink?"

Sneaking up behind him, I wrap my arms around his warm waist and bury my face in his fluffy orange back. "No," I speak in a muffle, "let me stay like this."

I feel him inhale deeply. "Okay," he whispers.

Minutes pass and cuddling him relaxes me enough to pull him to the other side of the room. "Can we do this on your bed?" I ask.

The colorful expression on his face makes his concerns obvious. "What? Are you sure?" he asks anxiously. "I-if you want to…"

"Yes. I just wanted to tell you something." I sit on the foot of his mattress. When he sits down alongside me, I latch onto his back and pull him down– my hat falling off. "Come see me on Saturday," I say, poking my nose into the nape of his shirt collar. "I have something I want to show you."

He remains as motionless as a captured mouse. "Saturday?" he repeats. "Where?"

"The eastern terrace."

"I'll come," he agrees instantly. "But when, exactly?" It almost sounds like he's worried he'll miss it.

"You ask a lot of questions," I say with a laugh, pulling my arms off of him. "At two in the afternoon."

Rolling over on his stomach, his sky blue eyes meet mine, inducing me to watch him closely. He seems so intent on observing me, I almost expect him to brush something off my face. "So cute," he gushes instead, his voice wondrously oblivious to reality. I wonder if he just said his thoughts aloud again. Or maybe he just said mine.

I want to reply, 'NO, you sho cute', just so we can get into one of those sickeningly sweet couple's arguments, but the front door slams open so tumultuously– we both jump up in bed whimpering.

"Rod, you're late!" Neil roars, blinded by his typically abusive rage. "If you don't have the decency to show up on schedule, stop badgering me all the time about studying animals you ungrateful, bungling assclown–" His tirade halts when he notices us at last, clinging to each other out of fear, but probably in his eyes– interrupted love-making. "UGH," he groans, closing the door on us.

Long after Rod has grabbed his books, apologized, and left out the door, I remain on his bed– strangling his pillow and angrily yammering out a frustrated peel of newly invented words.

* * *

**Uh. Author note.**


	8. Chapter 8

Sneaking up on me is Friday yet again and consequently the day of the month-end Crop Festival. Pulling a giant yam from my bag, I place it on the festival counter before Dunhill and watch as he carefully takes it in hand and weighs it. "H-hey… how are you doing?" I wrangle-up the nerve to ask him. By this I mean, 'How are you doing after I ravaged you the other day', but you know, greetings first and all.

"Quite well," Dunhill answers, carefully examining my yam—so carefully in fact, it almost seems as if he's expecting it to sprout eyes, become a sentient being, and levitate away. I'd only expect such behavior from a potato myself, but I suppose we don't see entirely _eye-to-eye _on that. (That was terrible, I know.) "Are you entering this for the festival?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, buckling my bag back up.

"Alright then." He holds onto the yam and writes something down in a tablet. Meanwhile, I throw my butt up onto the counter and sling my legs over. "Hold on, Rio, I'll move this."

"It's ok," I say, leaning over him and resting a hand on his hat. "Thanks for looking out for me all the time. You've got your hands full."

He chuckles and nods his head. "I guess I do."

I pull away and scoot on over and—with this small gesture of good will—I jump off and head into the square, hoping that things will be less strained between us in the future. And that I'll behave enough to make it so.

Walking in on the festival, I see everyone in town is gathered below the square's large wooden stage so I get in line with the other contestants and climb atop it. Standing above the town's expectant eyes as I'm judged among the others—it make me think about how similar this scene is to a hanging. Upon this thought, my posture stiffens and I can almost feel a blistery noose around my neck and a stool under my feet. The slicing chokehold is enough to strangle you after a few minutes, but the executioner might try again if they don't get a successful snap the first two times. Oftentimes though, if they keep failing, the crowd gets superstitious, cuts you free, and calls it the Goddess's will. Survivors call it flexing your neck and fasting once they weigh you to make the rope. I call it being too horrible to die.

As Emma, the judge, slices up all the entered produce and daintily samples it with a relish fork at her post, I gaze into the audience and watch Rod, who is distractedly talking with Allen about something presumably serious (based on their expressions). Talking and talking. What kind of conversation could they even be having at such a time? Merely watching them makes me a little bit anxious.

As if sensing my affliction, Allen looks up at me, smirks, and runs his fingers through his hair in one grandiose flick which would rend bishie sparkles if I didn't know any better. This throws me off so much, I instead stare at Klaus, who is sitting behind him and is much easier to look at.

The results are announced and the other contestants grumble when I'm crowned the first place winner. Even the most polite amongst them whisper conspiracies about "favoritism" and I think maybe they're right, since I imagine the older contestants easily have twenty years experience on me. Are they onto something? I dunno. Maybe it's suspicious that a newbie like me overtakes them after a mere two years of heavily investing in fertilizer. But hey, it's not like I built this town with my blood and dying youth.

I pile off the stage with the other contestants and watch as everyone in town forms their social groups and chatters away. After I speak with everyone who made my easy win possible (by possibly pressuring Emma), I chat pleasantly with the other young ladies and then haunt Rod's social group last.

As I shuffle up, Allen leers at me like I'm an insect ripe for squashing. "What's up, Rio?" he asks defensively.

I glance between him, a constipated-looking Neil, and Rod. "Just thanking everyone," I say. "For all their support."

Allen simpers jerkily enough to cause his glasses to do that ominous flash-and-glow thing. "Oh, so you won, did you?" he says, shrugging at me and shaking his head. "My congratulations are in order. I like people who work hard. I mean it, I think you did great."

Amazingly enough, I'm moved by his admission to my greatness (even if it was sorta condescending). "Thank you," I say. Because this is what male friendship is all about. I think.

Inching over to Rod, I tug on his shirt sleeve. "Hey," I say, not sure what else to say, since I'm irrationally bashful all of a sudden. Regardless, I hang onto his sleeve and find my focus drifting down to the ground. His shoes are bright white, red, and slightly untied. Mine are covered in shit.

Rod laughs pleasantly, ignores my silent bid for privacy, and then throws his free arm around Neil's shoulders. "Hey, did you see it, Rio?" he asks me. "Neil was making a really grossed out face earlier."

"What are you talking about?" Neil blurts, his frown devouring his face and _further_ grossing it out. "Are you insinuating I don't like vegetables? … Because if you are, that's far from the truth."

"Of course you like veggies!" Rod beams proudly. "You just like them juiced beyond recognition!"

Neil clicks his tongue irritably. "Why don't you go bug someone else about this kinda thing? Someone like Toni."

I'm tempted to poke fun at Neil by telling him to eat his veggies, so he "grows up big and strong", but I realize it's out-of-line considering the last conversation the two of us had.

So I say nothing.

And as the two quarrel on, I stand there stupidly, let go of Rod's sleeve, and watch as he drifts further from me.

An arm leans on my shoulder and I jump. "I think that if you were the type who didn't like vegetables," Allen speaks into my ear, and with a small degree of derision, "this festival would be the worst thing in the world."

"Yes," I add uncertainly. "If I didn't like them, I wouldn't grow them."

Allen chuckles and goes on. "Well it's like Neil mentioned. Toni has been bawling about the contest and all the goods from the start and it's starting to get on my nerves. I'm about ready to force them all down his throat just to get it over with."

I don't know if he means he wants to choke Toni to death with produce or what—so I answer with strained silence.

"I'm just kidding," Allen explains. "Don't get all upset now."

"I wasn't upset," I say in my defense. I was just a bit bewildered.

Rod and Neil carry-on heedlessly, rough-housing and disagreeing about some small grievance (animal related), and I begin to feel a little bit lonely.

Freeing himself from Rod's arm lock, Neil bops him on the head and proceeds to scold him. Seconds later, my feelings have turned to agitation—especially since the two don't seem to be letting up anytime soon. "If you knew half as much as me," Neil exclaims, "you wouldn't have to ask me so many stupid questions!"

Despite this stab at his intelligence, from NEIL of all people, Rod remains surprisingly cheerful. "Oh?" he says. "But that's why I asked you to begin with. You should take my wanting-to-know as a compliment of your abilities."

"W-what?" Neil blushes in surprise.

Standing there, watching this strangely-offensive scene, a single seed of evil born amidst the cold abyss deep inside me sprouts and I begin to mutate into a statue forged from demonic stone. Or maybe Alice the harvest sprite.

Allen, being the opportunist that he is, decides that this is an _awesome_ time to stick his fingers in my mouth. "Get along now, little pooch," he says, forcing me to smile by prying up the corners of my stiff and unforgiving lips. "You are the gloomiest woman I've ever seen. Truly. Just looking at your crabby face puts me in a bad mood."

Being ALL KINDS of enraged, I tug away and spit at the ground. "Enough," I say, holding back a threat to bite his fingers off (since we're sorta friends now). "You were behind me! Don't complain about what you can't see."

"Oh?" He chuckles and circles around to intimidate me. "But I can see right through you, remember?" He pokes my collarbone.

My mouth twitches, and not because I'm attempting to smile. "I'll liven up when I see something I like."

"But isn't it right in front of you?"

I watch Rod miraculously animate Neil with his versatile, alchemic chemistry—causing the grumpier to shout and unwittingly smile—and the muscles in my face painfully tighten up. This sort of expression I'm making. It can't be a happy one.

I don't know why or how, but Rod can both give me what I lack and then mirror it to fuel my innate jealousy. Or maybe instead, I should call it inadequacy. I believe this is what it means to have an ugly heart. "I'm going home," I say, my chest pounding from this hateful understanding. "See you all later." And as I huff and take my first step, Allen yanks me back by my hair.

"And now you see the problem with Rod," Allen says pragmatically, almost as if he _really_ _can_ see right through me—and almost as if he has experienced this very same feeling many times before. "Hard to hate him, hard to love him."

I silently contemplate this phrase, trying to think of a reasonable response for it, but then I wonder if Allen is saying that Rod is too perfect even by his own overinflated standards. And whoa, so many things can be read out of that.

Allen literally pulls me into the fray between Neil and Rod, and then he lets go of my hair—a whole fistful of it, which helps me gauge how much he honestly hates me.

"I say, well done," Allen begins, golf-clapping to obtain Neil and Rod's attention. "I think it's truly amazing. Amazing how you two are still so buddy-buddy, especially after Neil got so much closer to Rio instead. Isn't that right, Rod?"

Rod stops and defensively raises his eyebrows. "Are you talking about _that_ again? Neil was sick," he explains. "I'm glad Rio and Iroha were there to help him."

"That's right," I butt in, forcibly supporting his statement. "Iroha was totally there."

"Well. I've always said it, haven't I?" Allen goes on, closing his eyes dolefully and totally ignoring me. "You're a very giving fellow, little buddy. Always willing to go above and beyond for your friends. Why, whenever someone wanted something of yours, you just _gave_ it to them, be it your lunch, a toy. Or a pet."

Facing Rod, I see his eyes are fraught with horror and his mouth sealed shut from the memory of it. From this alone, I realize how little I actually know about him. And I start to wonder. Locking him in a barn or not, what other potentially-traumatizing things did Allen do to him when they were children?

"I see Rio is also very similar, in a way," Allen adds with poisonous grace; "giving up her own bed, her concern, and even the attention I think she'd _typically_ reserve for a loved one. The man who catches her will certainly be the better of us all. Anyway. Rod and Rio, you two are truly cut from the same cloth. I just had to tell you."

Even Neil's attitude has been twisted around by Allen's words, since he looks even more self-conscious and redder now than ever, which is quite astonishing considering the fact that the idiot blushes persistently for no perceivable reason.

Right now, my only instinct is to pitch my true rottenness out into the open to dissolve this uncomfortable and bile-filled praise. "Allen. That's too much," I say, shaking my head disapprovingly. "I would've thrown Neil into the river had my conscience not kicked-in in time. But if you want to worship me so badly, I'll abide." I then laugh for possibly the FIRST time in public and claw onto Allen's arm, pulling him along and enduring the others' befuddled stares. "I just remembered, I needed to ask him some stupid questions about hair. Please excuse us."

Once we're a safe distance away, I verbally rip into Allen. "What the hell was THAT?" I demand, fighting off the urge to shove him and start a fight (since we all know how that turned out last time).

In a familiar action, Allen rubs the back of his head and plays dumb. "Goodness oh my venerable Goddess, I was only complimenting you and Rod," he says, sounding genuinely hurt AND sarcastic. "I didn't know I had committed such an awful crime."

I understand now. Nothing this man says is the truth, and even if it is, it might as well NOT be. "Why you gotta play your friends like that?" I ask.

He couldn't have looked more surprised. "Huh? Like what?"

"Like a meddling old biddy."

Huffing shortly, he holds his forehead and rubs it—almost as if summoning a genie. "Fine, I'll say it," he snaps, outraged by my insult. "It bothered me, how Rod wasn't jealous_ at all _about you and Neil and the other night. Shouldn't he be mad at Neil for being with you, even just a little? I thought Rod was interested in you, but after this… Whew. I don't know. I think he should_ at least_ have given Neil the cold shoulder for awhile. Yet, I saw how he was just now, overly-friendly with him and pretty much ignoring you and… I felt bad for you."

"Allen," I say, not believing his blatant lies for one moment. "You're not on my team. You're the weasel running around on the field, getting in the players' way."

"Such punishment for showing my concern… Is that how you really see me?" he accuses heatedly. "A means to your end?"

His argument makes NO sense in regards to mine, since I CLEARLY see him as an annoying obstacle instead, so I humor him. "No. Maybe more like a disturbed peacock…"

"Then what about YOU?" he argues on, blocking out my last comment like it never happened—which actually IS the sign of a disturbed person by the way (never mind peacocks). "You were annoyed with Rod just now, I _saw_ it."

"Fine. I admit I was annoyed," I confess, biting my bottom lip. "I wanted Rod's full attention… and he was giving it all to Neil."

Allen nods his head. "As I said! And all while _not_ being jealous over you."

"W… who?"

"Rod."

I squint, doubly perturbed by this confusing jealousy-triangle Allen keeps pushing. "Listen," I say, trying to make him finally understand. "Rod doesn't succumb to jealousy or useless emotions." I hold out my arms and bask in the glorious sunshine—which (for all I'm concerned) he shares with us all. "He's perfect."

I hear snorting in return, which is an audio mix between Allen laughing and my alpaca choking on a treat. "You don't really believe that, do you?" he asks.

"I really do believe THAT. See. When most guys would throw a tantrum, Rod smiles and gets along with everyone." I point out. "His unusual mellowness is his best feature. It's also highly unique."

"You mean highly BORING," Allen snaps offendedly. "And since you like his unusual BORINGNESS so much. I mean it, don't you ever fall for someone amazing like me. I can't consider you a woman. And I'm pretty sure no one who's _nearly_ as cool as I am would. Okay? You're more like a leech, pretending you're friends with the ones around your target just so you can hone in."

"That's not leech behavior."

"And YOU would know. You don't even like me or Neil. The way I see it, you're just being two-faced with us. Just to make things easier for yourself. Friendship?" Allen laughs harshly. "What a joke."

I'm pretty sure I NEVER once propositioned Neil for friendship, and Allen is the poster boy of two-facedness, but point taken. "I did become your friend out of convenience," I admit hesitantly, which is actually a bad move from a legal standpoint. "But what's wrong with that? Isn't that how most friendships are formed? Being in the same place at the same time, knowing the same people, having the same goals… Why should that cause you such anger?"

A train of thought rushes behind Allen's eyes, but then he squints and all rationality screeches to a halt. "You're a disgrace," he declares loudly—and without any further comment, he swaggers away, picks up Rod by the scruff of his jacket, and drags him off.

For the rest of the evening, I drink and hack away at saplings that have infiltrated my terrace-located hedge maze of love. "Why do they hang in packs?" I ask myself, killing two saplings and leaving the last one because for a moment I think: _a tree might look good there_. "Why is it so hard to get one all alone, all to myself?" I go over and axe it anyway. "Stupid bromance. Stupid. Stupid. Ugh."

I stop to drink some more wine, which doesn't seem all that palatable to me anymore, but when has that ever deterred me? Lifting the pretty glass bottle over my head, I manage to gulp the rest of its poison down and then wonder why I can just save the effing thing for all those ridiculous blueprints they're needed for. I chuck the empty bottle away to SOMEWHERE and go back into the house to sleep early.

There is no night. There is only day. Scooping myself out of bed that morning, I pry my knotted hair out of my face and stagger outside, half-tend the animals before staggering back inside, and then crawl into the bath. Today was the day I both dreaded and anticipated. Longed for and held-back from.

Confession and commitment day.

I jump out of the tub and watch as water drips onto the tile floor and streams down the center drain, all before I blindfold myself with a towel and attack my hair on the way to my armoire.

I've always disliked the way clothes grip the skin after bathing, especially with tiny rigid dress shirts and their tight-woven fabrics. Though it takes a great deal of tugging, I crawl into my frilly long sleeve blouse and pour into my black tights, cringing every time my nails snag the finicky material. Hobbling into my skirt, I glance up at the calendar, just to make sure I wasn't getting dressed for the wrong day.

It would've saved me had I done so two days ago.

"What the fff—" I yell, staggered by what I saw. Today was the last day of fall. Today was the Pumpkin Festival. A candy festival. A celebration for all the little children. For me to confess on a children's holiday… I couldn't have planned it any worse. "No no," I yell, punching the wall and then holding my damp head. "I can't confess today." I hiss and ruffle up my hair in aggravation. "Why didn't I notice that sooner? Stupid, I'm so stupid!"

There's no way Rod would take me seriously if I confessed on such a day. He might be flattered at first but in the back of his mind be thinking: _why today of all days? Isn't she just making a spur-of-the-moment decision? I don't if this is the right time._

Opening my storage box, I pull out the commitment ring and hold it close. Maybe not today, but then again… maybe.

Ah, whatever! I'm not letting this day go to waste. I invited Rod—and I'm going to show him the effing hedge maze of love I built just for us. And if the perfect moment for presenting the ring doesn't come, I'll give him a Mythic Stone instead. That will definitely set up potential for later. "Didn't I have a stockpile of them around here?" I ask myself, slapping on my hat and running outside to check my supply shed. Reaching in and scooping out an armload of the brilliant red stones, I count several dozen plus the tidy pile inside. "How fortunate. He really likes these," I say, figuring he'd be TOTALLY ecstatic if I gave him all of them. "But… wouldn't it seem like I was trying to buy him out?"

"Buy what out?" a familiar voice asks, causing me to drop the stones back into the shed and bolt the door back up.

When I turn around, I find Rod staring at me with great interest. "Blueprints," I say to him, patting my skirt anxiously while ejecting related keywords. "Materials. Town restoration. Plans." I notice his eyes are scanning me up and down and my anxiety surges. "Do I look weird?"

He blinks rapidly and then laughs in a rather forceful manner. "No way, of course not!" he assures me. "It's cute! It's just the first time I've ever seen you wear something so… so fancy." He averts his eyes and clutches his arm in a reserved manner—making me realize that he is definitely displeased somehow.

My self-confidence crumbles. "Yeah. I know." I sulk. "It doesn't suit me, does it?"

Opening his mouth to explain himself, his voice cracks instead. "What—what are you saying?" he stammers and cheers me on. "It's really cute! Anyone who sees you would think so too."

I clutch my arm and sink into my own brooding displeasure. "You don't have to force yourself." I frown. "You're pretty obvious."

"I'm… obvious?" Rod mulls this over and goes back to being unhappy. "I guess it was obvious how childish I was being just now. I was thinking about how Allen did your hair a few days ago, and everyone's been talking about how beautiful you are lately. I mean… that's not even a good reason. It's really dumb of me to be getting down about that, isn't it?"

I gulp sharply, since it feels like that's the only way to keep my fluttering heart from escaping. "Yeah, it's really dumb of you," I agree with him. "Because I did it for you."

Rod's mouth hangs open for a moment, but then he squeaks out a response. "H…What?"

"Forget it." I turn around, resentful heat rushing to my face. "I just wanted to show you it. We're going on a walk. I'll go change into something more practical."

Rod reaches out and catches my arm. "Wait, don't change," he pleads earnestly. "Don't mind me!"

This only serves to make me angrier. "Tch, don't mind you? You… you dork," I sputter, certain that I just popped a blood vessel. "And now I'm pissed off for some reason!"

Rod starts visibly panicking. "N-no," he cries, his face sweating so much it looks like he's about to have kittens. "What have I done?!"

I march back into my house and close the door, holding my face in shame. "Dork?" I mutter, slapping myself. There should be a limit to how STUPID I can be in ONE DAY'S TIME. I'M the DORK for ruining the mood like that. But I was just so angry! Honestly, all that just now was totally unexpected. I thought his eyes would start shining as soon as he saw me and then we'd lovey-dovey and start smooching and screentone bubbles would fly and we'd go to outer space and ugh. UGH.

"But it was the complete opposite," I say to myself, switching back into my overalls. I bump my head against the armoire door repeatedly. "I keep doing such useless things…"

Abrupt tapping sounds at the door. "Rio?" Rod's asks. "Are you still in there? I'm sorry. Please come out. I really want to see you."

I bite back a frown. What a dork! I should be the one apologizing. Who the hell does he think he is?

How does he manage to shake me up so much?

Putting my hat back on, I go over and open the door slowly. "I'm still here," I say. "I was just changing. Like I said."

I thought this would relieve Rod but it doesn't. "You really didn't have to…" he says, appearing unduly remorseful about the whole thing.

"Hmph!" I scoff, acting irritated just to make him squirm. "I told you we were going on a walk, so yeah, I had to. There's something else I wanted to show you, so let's go already."

Rod remains silent but then smiles and scratches his cheek. "So then, the first thing you wanted to show me today was your new outfit…"

"Yeah? Is that so weird?" I demand, pulling my hat brim over my stupid pouty face. "It's certainly not as weird as you getting all worried about it. What? Were you thinking guys would start following me around or something?"

He glances away towards town. "They already do."

"Huh?"

"Oh… ha!" Rod bursts out laughing. "D-did I just say something? I was talking to myself out loud again. Don't mind me!"

Rod. That explains nothing. It's like you're doing it on purpose now. You ARE doing it on purpose now. "Dork," I exclaim, stomping on ahead.

Rod starts after me. "_What_? Why!"

"Ha? I was just talking to myself again."

"That's unfair!"

"You're unfair."

"How am I unfair? Rio... Rio!"

I outrun Rod to the farm's far side, dash past the hedge maze, and then pounce up the hilly terrace, my heart still bursting with pent-up feelings. Is it ok for me to feel this happy still? Like me, Rod's insecure and jealous after all, but even if it's a flaw, I'm still finding myself liking it. I can't seem to stop myself. Because it's his.

Doing these stupid, random things might be the only way I can express every confusing way I feel about him. Because from the way I understand it, love is stupid like that.

Climbing to the highest ledge, I push myself against the big boulder at the top and jiggle it lose, rocketing it skyward on its built-up geyser and causing it to rain down warm water and sparkling vapor.

Down below, Rod watches the air as he climbs towards, captivated by the circling mist as if it were a spell. Steadily, he turns his eyes to me.

"That hedge wall over there. It's actually part of a maze," I say, self-consciously looking away and pointing at my creation. "From up here, you can see it's paths, although it's not terribly complicated."

Stepping up beside me, Rod beholds the view with his wide eyes and then gasps in awe. "It's a real maze! You really out-did yourself this time!" He then faces me. "But… I'm just curious. For what purpose did you build it?"

He sounds seriously impressed this time, so I respond appropriately. "I don't know," I lie, trying to keep my satisfied grin in check. "I guess I figured we could get lost in it." Only now, while staring ahead (and reeling from the confession I just made), do I wonder if he'd even like to do such a ridiculous thing in the first place. After all, I'm pretty sure most guys would find it harebrained and immature.

Why do I always wait until the last moment to crush all my hopes?

As I'm dying away at this thought, I feel Rod's hand brush aside the length of my hair, and before I can react, his face leans towards mine and a soft kiss grazes my cheek.

"Nh—" I warble out, paralyzed by the sensation until he pulls away, "–what… what was that for?!"

"It…" He freezes, apparently paralyzed _himself_ now, but probably because I'm merely holding him accountable: "…It was a reward!"

I glare at him severely, especially since I suspect he's mocking me. "A reward? For what? For building something stupid?" I glide my fingers past his ears and lean my face up into his. "Seems more like a punishment to me. So, should I give you one too then?" I bring our mouths close.

Rod's face exhibits such staggering reactions, of astonishment and disbelief—and trembling—that I hold back, veer off course, and go for his cheek instead. Leaving a medium-sized kiss on his face, I pull away and start on my way back down the terrace.

"Hey… wait," Rod calls out to me, out of breath but possessing just enough air to question this mistreatment. "I really thought you were going to… going to really…" He pauses, red-faced and addled. "Why'd you stop?"

"That's the punishment."

"You…"

"Come on, let's play in the maze now." I point at it. "Let's go. Let's go there right now, come on," I continue, brimming with childish mirth. I can't see what kind of expression he's making right now behind me, but I'm sure it's one of terrible frustration. And I can't help but feel satisfied about that.

But satisfaction never lasts for long, especially the kind born from the suffering of others. Out from the side of the farm I see three little children scamper past, giggling and shouting as they disappear right by me and on into the very maze I built for Rod and myself.

"Toni? Hina? Niko!" I yell, distressed by this flash invasion. For all the purposes I built this maze, this was NOT one of them. For all the benches and make-out surfaces it contained, this was the maze of love. LOVE.

Coming up from behind me, Rod holds his hand out at and beckons me to take it. "Shall we go in now?" he asks, anxiously awaiting.

I nod and take it. "Yeah," I say, smiling in spite of myself.

* * *

**Author note: **

**omg this chapter feels so derpy to me, what is this feeling even! **

**It must be love. I don't even it's 5am and I stayed up all night again *face falls into keyboard*  
**


	9. Chapter 9

Winter 1. Just like in the years previous, snow fell at dusk and managed to cake up the entire town with its startling white before I could jump from my bed and shake my ass twice. I may be a childish fool, but this shiny bright weather condition can't fool me with its perfectly fierce purity. Snow, feh! It'll become indistinct sludge when the dirt mixes in.

Come to think of it, it's quite messed-up how I like rain far more than snow, especially considering how the former helped flood away my hometown. But after spending numerous winters with the old carpenter who raised me, snowed into our icy cabin for weeks at a time—subsisting on the last bit of herb jam (shudder) while silently burning everything to keep warm—well, I can't remain so adorably oblivious to how much snow effing sucks.

But snow is quite beautiful, and beauty is truth when that's all that you know. I guess.

Tucking my pants legs into my boots and ensuring my overalls were sufficiently sealed off, I shield my face with my hat and then push outside, my bare hands instantly kissed by sprightly little puffs of deceptive snowflakes as I crunch towards the barnyard. So cold…

After feeding and warming my livestock with some crisp fodder and food, I march my horse out into the open and we stop and stand in the frozen grass field outside the barn, our senses inundated by the mere sounds of peppering snow and our labored breathing. Nothing else. Just the all-consuming white of the snow. And me. And a horse.

To escape this suffocating phenomenon—winter's blank room which devours everything—that's all I want right now.

Filling up my rucksack, I ride into town and visit everyone under the pretense of deliveries; fish to Hana and Kosaburo, apple tea to Yuri and Emma, and milk to Rebecca. I stay awhile at each place, guiltily melting all over their floors but filling with a nervous warmth as they speak at me. Yes, speak at me. These people have so much to say, I never have to say anything beyond "oh" and "I see". I prefer this.

By mid-day I haven't forced myself on everyone yet but some people are harder to track down and there's always later. Yes, there's all winter. But for now, I'm cold and hungry and I want to warm up again. Leaving my horse at the fountain in the center of town, under the cover of several house eaves, I slosh up to the restaurant and pull the door open. Heat and voices hit me, and before the door allows me in, a massive heap of snow falls from the overhanging roof and lands on my head, melting all over my shoulders and shocking me like an ice cold shower. Forgetting to breath or even shake the snow off me, I walk inside, order some pasta, and sit down in the only available seat—in the corner.

I dig in as soon as Felicity brings me my food, and I remain silent and blend into the background. All around me sits a bevy of tourists and strangers, each one watching excitedly as Michelle twirls her baton through the air and conjures up a spray of rainbow confetti—all of which falls into my food. My fork scratches at it and confirms it's paper.

Keeping my head low, I notice how all these people are radiating their voices, smell, and warmth—and how it repulses and draws me in all at the same time. Why do people need each other so badly at times, especially when we'd be better without? I wonder… Myself? I don't need to love them or hate them, or even look at them, I just need to be close to them; people. The draw for human contact… It's excessively unfair.

As I stab the paper confetti and curiously taste it (mindlessly wondering if it would actually taste like magic—or rainbows) the restaurant door slings open and more people flood in. I keep my face close to my plate and focus on the food, confetti, and warmth, but then I overhear Allen laugh in his flamboyant way and my muscles tighten with alarm. Perking my ears, I listen as he puts in a huge special order of five different pies and an even amount of tea.

Chairs scuffle and honk across the establishment. Looking up, I find that the whole farthest table has been evacuated for Allen and an all-girl entourage. "Honeys. It's my treat, so you don't have to hold back," he tells them, resting his elbows on the table and hiding his face behind his folded hands. Overjoyed by this, the four girls squeal and nearly faint from excitement.

Those familiar lines, this familiar scene. I may have been a hungover zombie at the time I first experienced it, but I still recall that event and the way his eyes grew cold after I failed to touch all the desserts he ordered for me without even asking.

_"Eat, come on,"_ he'd said. After a moment of resistance on my end, he had managed to force a pastry into my mouth. I remember how he scowled as I pulled insides that afternoon were completely ravaged from puking throughout the night so I couldn't stomach anything but tea. Since he had filled the table with treats and tried guilting me into finishing them, I became defensive.

Pulling away, I recall, I spat at him:

_"I don't like being told what to do." _

The scene before me now is similar, I confess, but with an entirely different mood. Fidgety and attentive, Allen's four girl entourage gasp on cue when Felicity brings in three platters and two separate plates—all balanced precariously on her head, shoulders, and palms—and then again when she deftly slides everything onto the table without a drop or crumb spilt.

"Bravo," Allen says, smirking at himself. "Just like a trained seal."

The girls giggle and Felicity forces out a strained chortle. "Oh, no. Not at all! I was born with this talent, just like my fast metabolism," she says with an inappropriate kindness, turning her attention to the girls. "Now mind those pies, as I'm told they're very dangerous! Fat may taste worthwhile but don't let it go to your thighs." She smiles at Allen as she pulls the trays away. "Or between_ your _ears."

Puffing out my cheeks to keep from spewing out laughter—or the confetti I just ate—I bow in reverence. Even if it were a mere flirtatious comeback, Felicity totally called Allen a fathead. Who would've ever expected such brass from docile Felicity?

The door swings open and I try minding my own business once again, but then my resolve fails twice as I hear Rod call out Allen's name. Lurching in my seat, I sit up straight, fully attentive.

"What is it, pal?" Allen asks, grinning reservedly and wrapping his arms around the nearest cooing girls. "Can't it wait? I'm entertaining."

"No worries, it won't take long," Rod says, his hands on his hips as he stares rather soberly at Allen. "I just talked to Niko. He said you sent them to Rio's hedge maze yesterday afternoon."

Allen laughs dismissively. "Ha. Right, so?"

"I was with Rio then!" Rod scowls and circles his hand through the air, instinctively demonstrating his furiousness. "Your timing was a little obvious!"

I drop my fork, since seeing Rod up-close and angry for the first time is so earth-shattering, my disconcertment loops around into admiration and then all I can think about is how cool he looks.

"Oh boy. Have a seat," Allen instructs, holding his head and inhaling sharply as his friend pulls up a chair and briefly says hi to all the twittery girls. "Alright. Yesterday was the Pumpkin Festival. Rio built that silly thing for the children, didn't she? Now tell me what's got you going off."

"It wasn't some 'silly thing'!" Rod explodes at him. "She worked VERY hard building it and she invited me over to see it days ahead of time!"

"Oh." Allen answers dully. "I'm sorry. I had no idea. Well. Considering how she forgot to give the kids any candy this year, I think my assumption was appropriate… That it was ALL for them, that is."

"G-geh," I sputter, swallowing food and confetti both. He's right. On account of forgetting the festival this year, I had failed to give Toni, Niko, and Hina their highly-anticipated annual festival treats.

Conceding to this point as well, Rod calms down and becomes listlessly pensive. "That's true… But still," he says. "You've always been like this!" He stands up and shakes his fist from all the injustice he's faced throughout the years. "Obstructing my love life while cultivating yours at the same time… It's honestly frustrating."

"Pardon me for being such an obstruction, little buddy. I believe that's the whole reason why I'm no good at dodging out of your way to begin with." Allen takes a sip of tea. "Because you've _never_ had a love life. Why, I'm just not used to it."

"No thanks to you!" Rod wildly slings his hand around again—making it apparent how he REALLY talks with it when he's excited. "And that excuse doesn't even make any sense! Be reasonable here!"

Allen shakes his head pityingly. "Come now, _I'm_ not the senseless one here. If you want action so badly, stop whining to me about it and go get some. Really, you're so silly. Think of all the fun you could be smuggling for yourself during my tea time. Act when my house is full and my orbit's in retrograde, I say."

Rod lets out a frustrated groan. "When will you realize that the world DOESN'T revolve around you?"

"Hmmm?" Allen leans forward to be fed a spoonful of pie by a breathy, wide-eyed girl. "Probably never."

Crossing his arms and glaring at his feet, Rod bounces his knees under the table. "I can't believe how stingy you are sometimes… And what is this about your tea time? You don't even like tea…"

"AHEM." Allen clears his throat to force Rod's silence. "Remember. _I_ wasn't the one who tried hogging Rio all to himself during the children's _special_ festival."

"What! That again? You don't even like children!"

"Huh. I like little Hina."

"You like all girls!"

"Now now, that's far from the truth," Allen says, turning his head and glaring at me from across the room. "Isn't that right, Rio?"

Choking on pasta, I latch onto my napkin and use it to suppress my astonished hacking. After swigging from the nearest water cup, and adapting to the fact that all the eyes in the room were now on me, I pull my plate up to my mouth, sweep its remaining contents inside, and spend a pressing moment of silence audibly chewing and gulping. "Mwa. What's wrong?" I answer at last, smacking my lips and deliberately rattling the ice in my cup.

Allen stares at me like I just ate an entire live kitten. "Why would anything be wrong, Rio?" he asks, secretly disgusted by my table manners. "Nothing wrong here. Nope, I was just wondering if you would properly join our conversation over here."

Standing up, I shove in my chair and stalk closer to get a good look at Rod, who's sweating and blanking out in an effort to recall if he said anything offensive in my unknown presence. "H-hello Rio," he chirps, contorting himself to face me and consequently ramming his knees into the table. "EE… You're looking well today!"

I peer into his sparkling blue eyes, which are slowly forming painful tears, and I'm overcome with such an urge to laugh that I find myself quivering and biting my knuckle to subsist. And I smile.

"This, kittens, is the gloomiest girl on earth," Allen announces, accepting another spoonful of pie. "If you're secretly after my best friend, speak up now. She's about to devour him in one bite."

"Allen!" Rod bursts, turning red up to his ears. It's great to see how he's still self-conscious about me, but the way he was just ADVERTISED to all the girls at the table melts my sudden smile into a scowl.

One of the girls, a what's-'er-face that I recognize as a regular festival contestant, laughs at Allen's suggestion. "And if one of us _were_ after your best friend, would you be angry?" she asks, turning her eyes to him and strumming her thumb across her lips.

By now I get she's teasing Allen for the sake of standing out from the other applicants, but just the idea of her intercepting Rod from my determined grasp starts my heart pounding with bloodlust and sends my hand itching for the axe in my rucksack. So I recognize I might have anger issues, ok?

Allen, holding his forehead in a brooding manner, runs his hand through his red hair and miraculously sets the room alight with his blinding inanity. "My flower. It's impossible for one such as I to hold the mysteries of womankind against her," he says, materializing a backdrop of rose petals, hot air, and lens flare in his wake. The girls squeal and fawn over him, all while he arrogantly concedes 'what a way' he has with words, but my condition worsens from the fact that he's plagiarizing Charles while simultaneously demeaning everyone at the effing table.

Nauseated, I turn my back and shoot a sidelong glance at Rod, hoping he notices but half expecting him not to. When he jumps up after me, my heart starts thumping again.

"Rio, are you leaving now?" Rod gushes.

"Yes," I say, fervently clutching the brim of my hat. "I have plans."

"Plans?" Allen interrupts, basking in his devotees' attentions. "You mean work, correct? What a funny mentality you've got, calling it that. Plans! _Ha_."

"Ha," I repeat, monotone. "Well I'm off to smuggle some fun now." I lift my hat off, motioning to the whole table; "Anyone care to join me?"

The girls pause in thought—fascinated by this odd proposal for a millisecond—but then they giggle distractedly, in their own slightly-varying manners, and go back to competing for a man who simply finds it very entertaining. And I'm sure they do too.

Anyhow, as interesting as it would've been to have swept them all away from that guy, my invitation was meant for my sole obvious interest, Rod. Pardoning himself from the table, Rod follows me out the door and walks alongside me as we trudge through soft, quickly-piling snow—the both of us nervous like eager teenagers.

In this lasting moment, the only sounds I can focus on are me and him, breathing and walking uphill. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be said, as our steps and quickened breaths line up. Like this, we reveal our desires and accordingly intertwine, and like this, I begin to appreciate the blankness of winter's white room.

After some time, we stop at the top of the forest and overlook the town, which is veiled by drifting snow but no longer the lush treetops viewable from springtime till fall.

"I like it better the rest of the year," I say, failing to explain myself. "When you can't see the town."

It takes Rod only a moment to contemplate what I said. "I like looking at the town you worked hard to build," he explains himself, understanding me. "But it's quite nice when the trees are full of leaves and nothing can be seen from here. Then you can imagine anything exists beyond them, like strange creatures or another world."

"Hm. That's right." I nod, astonished by how easily he put my strange thoughts into words. "But I guess they're already there, huh."

"Strange creatures? …I guess they are!"

I chortle a little and stare at Rod's side profile, thinking about how one of the strangest creatures of all, his old-chum Allen, has continued causing problems for us to this day (even if they're piddly in comparison to the outright sabotage he attempted before). It's still difficult—and I feel like he's turning my courtship efforts into a twisted game for his sole amusement—but I'm glad we became friendly-enemies. It may sound abnormal to admit, but have faith he has enough dignity to not stab me or Rod in the back twice.

I guess I've never formed the healthiest of relationships. That's another thing I want to change.

"Are you cold?" Rod asks me, detecting my knotted-up state but oblivious to what could be fueling it.

"Yeah," I say, bumping my shoulder up against his for warmth. "Now I'm alright."

Lies. From foreplay to kissing to handholding to simply standing next to each other. It feels like we're going out of sequence, and it's making me crazy. Why can't he just be mine? I want to know but I already do. It's the fear itself of going out of sequence—the last-minute fear of social norms. The ring in my rucksack might go against the program, but I want to confirm it before dissolving into further paranoia.

"That girl back there was really brazen," I begin, working this into a starting point for us. "If a girl asked you out… what would you do?"

Rod starts to scratch his cheek but then jerks his hand away, making me think he might be upset. This thought is dispelled, however, when he rubs his hands together to warm them up. His fingers were too cold against his face, it seems. "It, it depends on the girl, I think," he says quickly. "Like who it is."

This answer does not satisfy me. In fact, it leaves even more questions. "Who should it be, then?"

"Someone I already really like! I mean, somebody I already have a connection with…"

His proclamation gives me just enough courage to reach into my rucksack in search of something to give him. As my hand brushes against the ring, though, I recoil and grab a tucked-away mystic stone instead. "Here," I say, presenting him the blood-red gem. "You can have this."

As I drop the stone into his hands, he clutches it tightly and lets out a triumphant exclamation of joy and thanks—brimming with as much excitement as a child. "I love it!" he lets out.

His unrestrained response, combined with his sheer pleasure, embarrasses me by how much it stirs me up. "L-look at you," I sputter, patting him on the head awkwardly. "You're just like a little boy."

He glares at me, clueing me in that I've just said something TERRIBLY wrong. "I'm… I'm not," he says sharply.

"Hm? You're not what?"

"I'm not like a little boy!"

"Ah. So you're one of THOSE who hates being called a child, huh?" I scoff to keep myself from grinning at this adorable, newly-discovered complex of his; "What a baby."

Crouching down, Rod scoops up a snowball and lugs it at me, splatting crumbling ice down my overalls and causing me to yelp in surprise.

"S…so cold," I gasp, brushing it off. "I'll get you for that!" As I crouch down and mechanically scoop up an armload of snowballs, he cries out in surprise and (rightfully) runs off. Chasing after him—while laughing maniacally—I pelt them all at his back, watching intently as he struggles to gather up snow in-between shots for return fire. Laughing freely at this, I slow down just enough for him to do so and our little game continues, with him on the run and me in pursuit.

At the far end of the forest, gasping and wheezing, Rod falls to his knees and I dive after him, winding my arms around his and squeezing his back up against my chest. "I got you," I say, nearly out of breath. "And now you're my hostage."

"Y-you did," he admits. "And now I can't escape."

And strangely enough, this submission only stirs me up more.

"Then… I'll have to torture you now." With no one else around and my rationality neatly displaced by the situation—and my dangerous feelings—my left arm unwinds and my hand travels up his shirt.

"That's really cold!" he cries out immediately, shivering as I caress past his navel and upwards.

"Of course," I murmur into his ear. "I'm stealing your warmth."

"Uah!"

"Do you hate it?"

"It's cold!"

"But do you hate it?" Despite his passive complaints thus far, I want to coerce total consent from him.

"I…" His pause coincides with the moment my fingers travel across his chest and straight to his left areola. "W…what are you doing!" He gasps and his ears turn red.

"I'm torturing you."

"Then, then—" He wriggles around and pushes me down; "—then I want to do it, too!"

Gazing at Rod, face-up from where I lie in the snow, I watch his blushing, nervous face and meet his determined eyes—his two shaky hands pinning my shoulders down gently though abounding with intent. It seems I finally corrupted him into thinking more like a man. Or maybe, he already was.

"Then will you?" I ask, sliding my jean straps off-shoulder to tease him.

Retreating, he spins around and sits a little bit away. "No, I-I won't!" he answers in a raised voice. "Because you shouldn't let a guy touch you like that!"

But didn't I already touch him _like that_? It's already too late for this sort of a conclusion. Sitting up, I crawl close to him and lean against his back. "Well," I say. "Then what if he's my boyfriend?"

"That level… is for marriage!"

"Pfft!" I snort into my hand. That's so adorable. Seeing as how he almost gave in, his cute way of thinking won't last for long.

"Hey! Are you laughing at me?"

"Yeah. Because you're really funny." I pull my knees close to keep warm. "I like that about you." I press my ear to his shoulder.

"Rio," he quavers, his warm back against me. "Do you lo… do you like m—"

Listening intensely, and readying myself for this moment, voices cry out in the distance and cut Rod off. We freeze.

"W-what's that?" he asks, the both of us jumping to our feet as the shouts continue.

"Down by the river," I say, looking at him. "Someone's in trouble." Together, without another word spoken, we run and chase the shouts across the forest slope and down towards the lower bank, where an overturned cart and a crowd of people have gathered.

"What happened?! Is everyone alright?" Rod asks, folding into the crowd naturally and asking the very questions I was wondering but am far too removed to ask.

"That woman collapsed," an older man answers. "She's right over there, the doctor's with her."

Circling around the crowd, I come upon a smaller group—Charles, Emma, Hossan, and Klaus—and find them bundling a lady in blankets while discussing the best way to carry her to the clinic.

"I understand your worries, Emma and Charles, but it will be by stretcher," Klaus says, poking at his spectacles in deep concern. "After all, we don't yet know the extent of her injuries so we must move her with minimal strain. You two will retrieve it from the clinic's supply closet. Hossan and I will stay here in case she wakes up again."

Charles, pushing his nose into his forever-equipped red rose, gazes sensitively at Klaus and somehow sparkles. "Sounds like a plan," he says.

"You can rely on us, we'll be right!" Emma says, brandishing one of her soft white arms—an arm which holds the strength of an entire shipping fleet.

Approaching as the two leave, I stare curiously at the bundled woman being held in Hossan's big warm arms—and then at Klaus, who's pulling his lab coat close and shivering against the drifting snowflakes. "Do you need any other help?" I ask, suddenly feeling quite useless as I stand there and rubberneck.

"Thank you for the offer, but we've got it under control," Klaus says, looking out at the crowd. "If we need anything more we can get these gawkers to do it."

Hossan, pressing his eyes shut even tighter, frowns in a troubled manner. "But Klaus, aren't you going to tell her? What this woman was…" He ceases and gulps when the man shoots him an icy glare.

What should the doctor tell me? Did this woman have something to do with me? But she looks so unfamiliar, I don't think I've ever seen her before. But even if I had, I don't think I'd remember. She looks like one of those what's-er-face people. One of those people with level eyes, slender noses, and small shaped features. One of those people with no perceivable defects or characteristics to be remembered by. I wonder if that's what perfection is.

The woman bundled up before me now is a brown-haired woman no younger than thirty but easy on the eyes; plainly attractive. "Who is this?" I ask, my tension building from their silence. What was Hossan going to say?

"Rio!" Rod yells, running up to me with a newspaper crumpled his hand. "This article has you in it, they say that lady had it. Look, it's folded to your picture!" He thrusts the paper into my hands and I'm greeted by my own cold eyes staring back at me in black and white. It was the candid photo Tina snapped of me that one morning. It was a full page spread.

"R…Rio," the woman sputters and coughs, pitifully clutching her blankets close but lifting herself up to smile weakly at me. "I've… finally found you. I've searched so long for you… My daughter."

Trembling from the weight of the white around me, I stare down at the article in my hand—at it's title—and its incriminating title shakes away my breath. _Those Who Run Away_.


End file.
